Crowned
by pantherexplorer
Summary: AU. Destiel. Long ago a queen wished for a child with skin glossy as snow, hair jet as a raven's wing, and lips redder than blood. This child is borne, his story breeds grief, betrayal, honor, and love. What will become of him? Loosely based on Snow White and the Huntsmen
1. Night of Broken Glass

**Title: **Crowned

**Summary: **AU. Destiel. Long ago a queen wished for a child with skin glossy as snow, hair jet as a raven's wing, and lips redder than blood. This child is borne, his story breeds grief, betrayal, honor and love. What will become of him? (Loosely based on Snow White and the Huntsmen)

**Authors Notes: **Hey guys. So here is my first slash Supernatural fanfiction. Please be kind. I thought this was a nice idea and no one had used this movie as reference yet. Though it is a LOT different in aspects of the movie because I didn't even enjoy the movie, the only thing I thought was this would be a good Destiel fic. Oh lord. Well I changed a lot of things that were implied in the Huntsmen movie. Anyway hope you enjoy.

P.S. Yes the title is very simple but you know what simple can be great.

**Chapter Name: **The Night of Broken Glass

**Chapter Summary: **It takes a kingdom's collapse to rip two young boys apart.

* * *

_Long ago a queen strolled in the icy frost of her gardens. _

_Every ounce of her was anguished as she yearned for a child. Nature wrought the last two from her grasp. Their graves haunted her memory._

_Glazed eyes scanned her gardens; all of her precious ivies had shriveled in arctic jaws. The heartbroken queen's tears were chilled by the winter, and she thought that she would never know a mothers love._

_But as her heart sunk she spotted one rose. The rose had bloomed despite the dry brown bud it sprouted from, it burned bright and beautiful in the spasm of ice. _

_The queen eagerly approached it pressing a finger to the soft petals. She then wished, long and hard, for a child with skin glossy as snow, hair jet as a raven's wing, and lips redder than blood._

_A tear fell. And her wish came true._

* * *

"I have a brother you know."

Castiel is withdrawn from his sleepy haze to the sound of Dean's voice. Limp, his body sluggishly draped across the tree branch they shared, Castiel is at the moment irrevocably relaxed. The two had gorged themselves upon the ripe apples that adorned the tree. Plucking the fruit to their heart's content and ripping into their skins viciously. Even now an apple rested in the palm of Castiel's hand, sparse bites ornamenting the red.

Normally moments with Dean always brought Castiel great joy, but now it seemed even Dean's presence couldn't quell Castiel's nerves. Dean, it seemed, also noticed the drastic change in behavior of Castiel. Constantly the young boy was probing Castiel for answers or desperately revisiting old reveries hoping it might spark something back in the youth. Despite Dean's efforts Castiel rarely quit looking over his shoulder. This was why Dean's outburst startled and confused him, piercing the quiet lazy afternoon.

Half lidded eyes peered at Castiel but Dean's hands still diligently worked whittling a makeshift knife. The rhythmic yelps of stone had conditioned Castiel into a tranquil state, Dean's hands were always occupied the knives being a new skill he donned proudly.

"No. I did not."

"Yeah…. He isn't very big I suppose. Three now… but Christ he is the biggest three-year-old I've ever seen."

Castiel nodded patently, dragging a hand towards the width of the branch to scrape the bark. He was unaware why Dean was telling him this information. Scarcely did Dean ever mention his home life other than the new crafts/skills John taught to him, and Castiel suspected this was only because Dean was a bit of a bragger. In fact, the only thing Castiel knew about Dean's family was that John Winchester was leader of the royal guard and right hand to Castiel's own father.

It had only been natural for the two to play together. Dean hadn't taking a liking to Castiel's quiet endeavors at first but soon grew accustomed to his ears. Castiel was always attentive, and clung to every word Dean said. Castiel suspected Dean enjoyed this because soon the two were collecting stones in the creek, combing the forest, and licking apple juice from their chins.

Dean tore his eyes from Castiel as a blush burned like coals in freckles. He carves with more ferocity the shaves of metal nearly peeling off. Castiel and Dean are both young, eight years of age, a time where one should be unblemished, pure. But Dean is sturdy for his age, tanned deeply with routed strong bowlegs and sour demeanor. Compared to Castiel dimpled elbows and pale flesh Dean is a rouge warrior.

So the blush that stains his cheeks concerns him.

"The other day I think he said my name too. Well actually he said "De", but close enough right?"

"Yes I suppose so. He is only off by two letters."

"His name is Sam. I call him Sammy sometimes."

Time passes and Dean's hands halter, he rests them on his lap as his brow furrows deeply.

"Dean why—"

"Jesus Cas sometimes I wonder if your even human!"

The uproar leaves Cas thrown, he even wobbles from his perch a bit. Dean is back at him, stone icy glare that Castiel has received seldom in their friendship. The scowl bruising Deans face is so menacing Castiel finds himself unable to look away or even move when Dean flips his legs around and straddles the branch. Both the stone and makeshift dagger tumble from their roost but Dean does not seem to care.

"Dean I do not under-"

"Honestly Cas I just don't understand you. Most people would ask questions but you just go 'Yes I suppose so'!"

"But what else am I suppose-"

"You know it isn't normal for me to talk about my family Cas so you better damned well appreciate it when it comes up."

"Yes Dean."

"And you may as well give me the decency to act interested and tell me what's been wrong with you for the last few weeks."

Silence cottons the air, even the yaps of stray mutts and songs of birds have faded. As if they were awaiting eagerly for Castiel's response. But instead of this Castiel chooses to judge the fat fruit in his palm, peeling the excess red skin. He found himself unable to meet Dean's gaze especially once the Winchester eyes Cas suspiciously as he shells. Despite the unyielding pressure the words begin to ooze from Castiel's tongue.

"I suspect that my father…. is…. is intending to engage Lilith."

"Lilith?" Castiel regards Dean squarely until he remembers that he _hadn't_ told Dean. Though the conversation lolled in his brain countlessly, never had Cas mentioned his fears of Lilith. Or even her very existence to his best… his only fiend. The sting of betrayal touches Dean's eyes as he realizes that Castiel has been holding back more than he expected. A _lot _more.

Lilith though technically a ward, had attained the title of King Michael's dirty little secret. Weeks ago King Michael had marched his troops to ally with a neighboring kingdom of Raphael, finding only wreckage in the wake of a dead realm. Charred blood tarnished the battlefield; soldiers lay in ruin, their king impaled by his own sword, and no offenders to fault. All that survived was a titanium box, latched shut by deadbolts and charms. With some perseverance and shamans tricks the device crumpled open to reveal Lilith.  
She had no history, no parents, nor husband, but she had a face to rival the whole land. Skin white as polished ivory, with sunburst hair and eyes, she was a fine prize. And thought the king still mourned his wife even he couldn't shake her appeal. Soon enough Castiel spotted the spry beauty visiting Michael's bedside every night.

At first Castiel did not pay too much attention. He knew his father grieved, though his outlet choices were questionable. It hadn't been until Lilith had shuffled into his bedroom, eyes mystified as she ruffled his hair to prepare for the day. Sticky wet breath in his ear once she nuzzled her secret.

"_Soon Castiel I will be able to call you son."_

Now Castiel could think of nothing else. Feel nothing else but the stonewashed warmth of his mother's eyes, and how soon even that would diminish. There would be nothing left. Red flounces of hair burned out by the fires of sunned yellow.

It made Castiel want to retch.

"Lilith has been our ward for the past few weeks. But now I believe father will marry her."

Dean itches beneath Castiel's wary gaze, but no longer wears the hurt, only empathy. Though Castiel and Dean seemed exteriorly incompatible, the two were amazingly interlinked. Dean understood all just by those words, and Castiel loved him for that.

"Do you think she'll be a bitch?" Dean's vulgarity doesn't faze Castiel. He just cracks deeper into the meat of the apple, feeling nectar slick his wrists. Maybe under stress Castiel has adopted Dean's restless hand syndrome, as normally the child is still as marble. Dean senses this and places a gentle hand to rest Castiel's prodding.

"No. She has shown me nothing but kindness." This was true. Lilith, though she had escalated past ward status as she entered his father's bedside, nearly every morning helped Castiel organize his day. She was swollen with compliments, puffing Castiel's hair fondly, and commenting sweetly on his complexion. Beautiful you will be she would utter placing a light kiss to his nose.

Dean observes Cas once more, his hand hasn't left Castiel's and he ponders on its warmth. Dean huffs a sigh, Castiel quirks a brow.

"You won't forget your mother-the queen." Dean trips his sentence, knowing that even though Cas is fond of their friendship, a knights son has no right addressing the royal family so casually. Castiel had morphed into his only exception.

"How can you promise that?" Tears brim Cas's eyes, he tucks rosy lips to quell them but it is no use.

"I don't know much Cas. But I know about dead mothers and overworked fathers." Castiel strikes a confused glance at Dean, but then blinks rapidly as he understands _Dean's mother is dead._

It all made sense now really. His father was a constant character in his stories, but a mother lied in the reeds. Though at the same time Sam, the three-year-old, had also been scrounged away from Dean's stories. Maybe Dean felt he couldn't protect ones dead or so young, scrubbing them from his tales.

Castiel choked on a murmur of apology when Dean interrupted him.

"When I was four and Sammy was six months old, our home burst into flames. We still don't know what did it or even why, all I know was that mom was on the ceiling and dad yelled at me to carry Sammy outside. So I did. I ran and ran with a six month year old bawling in my arms until my feet gave out. My dad found me lying near a drainage gutter in the morning, stark raving mad since he thought his sons had been lost as well."

Castiel felt his throat parch, tightening at how graphic Dean's mother's death was. He had felt absolute terror when he perched upon his parent's bed to find his mother stone cold and lifeless. Finding her in a fiery coffin pinned to the ceiling? He couldn't fathom.

"That's why I'm always out with my dad and fashioning weapons. When my dad isn't on the knight's watch, we journey into the Black Forrest...always trying to find the thing that took mom."

"I'm sorry Dean."

Dean's eyes had grown clouded during his speech. As if he had forgotten Castiel's present company or firm grip. Alarmed he squeezed Cas's palm, Cas returned it fiercely.

"It's old news really. But never has my father forgotten mother. He's taken on new concubines; I spy women lounging his bed frequently. This doesn't mean mother is gone, it just means that time is moving and he's trying to move with it. I think that your da-king Michael deals with the queen's death healthier than my dad, they do not share the bone of obsession my father wields."

Castiel nods. Stunned for all purposes, Dean has opened up to him to graciously. Let him wander in his guarded heart, it seemed like a great feat. Their shared buried mothers and burdened fathers left them vulnerable and clinging to one another. Castiel and Dean Winchester would be friends for years to come, he knew, a fact he treasured.

"C'mon let's go pick the fattest rocks by the creek and hurl 'em at each other."

"When is that game ever wise Dean?"

* * *

Dean and Castiel constructed a three-footed fort with the rocks they failingly flopped at one another. Their hands were discolored with mud but the structure fared nicely among the creeks bank. It became a fine nest for the boys to rest in, the sun's flagging heat arising more freckles on Dean's skin.

They ventured further down the stones, cobbling beneath their toes. Castiel rustled some blackberries (which Dean insistently checked once, twice, before consumption) and the two popped them into their mouths as they inspected frogs, black fish, and stray raccoons. Dean sang old ale songs his father taught him quite obnoxiously, Castiel flicked berries at him in annoyance.

An incessant wheeze tugs the boys from their play. Castiel perks to the noise he begins to trail the banks for the origin of this noise nearly panicked. Dean shrugs it off and explores for thin rocks to skip, he isn't worried at Cas's reaction but keeps one eye tabbed on the dark mop.  
Castiel grunts in frustration, scouring through prickle bushes and scrutinizing the underbellies of rocks. The wheezing doesn't weaken, but grows in volume valiant against the rush of tide water. It takes a solid ten minutes of gasping, Castiel's probing, and Dean's skipping for the noise to reveal itself. Disclosing the puffed exterior of a baby dove sturgeon white with black pebble eyes. The chick regards Castiel with curiosity and noses his outstretched hand.

Dean casts a long shouldered look over at Castiel. He is squatting, fingers tailing out to a bird who has resumed panting excitedly. He studies Cas run the pad of his thumb gingerly over the chick's delicate neck, it leans nearly like a lazy cat. A twitch of a smile ghosts over Dean's lips, Castiel was a master with animals. What he lacked in social skills seemed not to deter various creatures to crawl to his feet. Dean skipped his last rock, nearly laughing, Castiel fared better with birds than people.

"Dean we must take it to its nest."

Concern laced Castiel's voice and Dean swerved around to see the boy, now standing, with a satisfied ball of fluff and feather in his hands. The chick was swaying with exhaustion, comfortable to slumber in Castiel's fingers.

"Why does it keep… huffing like that?" Dean asks lip pulled on an imaginary fish hook.

"It is only a squab. They haven't procured the throat muscles to chirp yet."

"Squab?"

"A baby dove Dean."

"I figured that but squab? Really?"

"I do not understand why we are discussing this. Help me find the nest." Castiel doesn't waste time and spins on his heel, desperate to find the nest. Dean rolls his eyes at Castiel but sluggishly follows back hunched.

The two spend about two hours dissecting the nearby area of where the _squab_ fell. Castiel insists that it must be close for the bird is unable to move much, and that the nest is rested on a tree branch. This consists of Dean screaming up at cedars to see if any birds coo back, looking at Castiel for guidance, and in the end mounting all of them to the top. After tree number thirteen Dean is about to call it a day until he stumbles upon a nest. It is assembled from thin thistle, mud, and leaf. Crested in the nest lay three eggs, not hatched but puffing away, close to cracking.

When Dean calls down angrily that they found his goddamned nest Castiel brightens so much Dean nearly takes it back. It is seldom that Castiel shows such vibrant emotion and Dean can say truthfully that blissful happiness suits him.

Castiel's sweet little passenger pants, it outstretches its wings that are really just bone and feather fuzz. Nestling the chick Castiel brings the baby chick at ease again as his voice, sounding years older, resonances.

"We will bring you home young one." The bird nips at his nose.

It full on bites Dean once Castiel hands the squab-demon to him, with a boost from Cas he hobbles onto the nearest branch without damaging the bird. Dean curses the whole time as he ascends the cedar, the bird gnawing into his flesh turning it pink and speckled with blood. He nearly throws the cursed thing in its nest.

Finally on ground the boys note that the evening has begun to tint the skies. It is time to return home or their parents would worry. So the two trotted back, Castiel runs with his arms outstretched like the wind will just pick him up on the way, take him to live in that birds nest.

Years later Dean will recover that memory in his darkest of hours.

They part at the castle gates and Castiel hugs Dean aggressively and mutters in his ear. "Thank you Dean."

"Sure buddy."

It would not be the last time Castiel would hear Dean's voice, but the last of his freckled face for years to come.

* * *

Tonight Castiel dresses for bed by himself.

For the past few weeks Lilith had taken it upon herself to address Castiel's bedtime. Normally he would be washed, the twigs and dirt from his plays with Dean scrubbed until pink. After plucked from the bath Castiel is rubbed dry and presented woven pajamas to adorn. Lilith would then proceed to present Cas with a mug of warm herbed tea that he would sip as she quietly peered from behind a novel. Once finished she would frisk the mug from Castiel, and roll him in his sheets. Once again she would glide her fingers through his frothed locks (which had gotten quite long actually), thumb his lips, even pull at the skin that homed sapphire eyes. Pretty thing, she'd say, pretty thing indeed.

The routine was something Castiel had been raised in (with the exception of Lilith's close examination). Before Lilith his housemaids would take turns and before that his mother would. So coming home with no one to care for him was eerie, but oddly exciting. Castiel excitedly jumped at the chance to control his bath, procuring the temperature he so desired and shampoos he preferred. Once out he didn't immediately dry but wait for the water to drain and for the dew drops to sear off his skin naturally. Tousling his hair Castiel donned pajamas, but did not go to bed.

Peeking from the corners of his door, Castiel instead scampered to his father's room located down the hall. Michael after Anna's death grew incredibly paranoid and ordered his son's room to border his own. Castiel was grateful, the halls were shadowy and shifting at night, trying to direct his way through them was nearly impossible. Desperately he hoped Lilith did not occupy his bed, though Castiel would not understand why if she did. It was early and if she wasn't soundlessly waiting for Castiel's bed time then something must have called her attention elsewhere.

Michael's room was impressive. Dark wood furniture, forested green ornamental rugs, and fine silver tapestry, the ceilings hung high and restless above. For a moment Castiel wondered what it would be like if he was strapped to its ribs.

The bed was unmade, a lump breathing evenly beneath its thick duvets. Castiel gently toed his way to Michael, who didn't stir, and placed a fattened hand to his shoulder.  
"Daddy." Castiel called, he is restive, nervous, wanting to hear his father's voice. There is this urgency that itches beneath his skin that Castiel wants to resolve. "Daddy wake up. It's Castiel."

Michael doesn't move and continues to breathe evenly. Castiel laments and surrenders his plan, removing his hand turning on his heel. Sometimes father was a heavy sleeper that even Cas couldn't rag him out of.

Suddenly two hands interlocked around Castiel's waist and he is scooped from his feet and locked beneath the billowing covers. At first Castiel panics, he squirms and kicks sprawling like a worm caught in a bird's beak. Once he strikes a leg into the gut of his perpetrator and hears the familiar 'oof' and throaty laugh, Castiel stills.  
"Wow son you're getting too big for this."

Castiel audibly huffs out a sigh of relief and sags against his father. A newfound calm washes over him. Father is safe and so is he, this night is standard, ordinary, and the entire castle is burrowing for bed. It is reassuring and Castiel twists to fit neatly in his father's arms. He has not done this since the early days of his mother's death, so Michael twitches uncomfortably. Castiel does not care and instead clutches quite tightly.

"Castiel? Are you alright? Why are you not in bed?"

"Lilith was not in my chambers." He states plainly and his father curls around to capture Castiel's eyes.

"Lilith was absent? Was there no one else?" Castiel shakes his head no and rests it upon his father's chest. His heartbeat thuds in time against silk pajamas, Castiel thinks that these pajamas could pay a week of meals for Dean. The thought sits in his stomach unevenly.

"Well I—" Michael begins to untangle himself from his son but Castiel quells him and pleads.

"No daddy, please? I don't want to go. Can I sleep here? Like when mama…."

A glint of worry colors Michaels sky tone eyes, Castiel had no doubt inherited most of his characteristics from his father as he blinked back at him. "Of course Castiel."

Castiel nods and resumes his listening to his father's heart. Feeling its thrum soothingly in his ear, it is as if Castiel doesn't hear it his father is gone forever. This screws Castiel's gut upside down and he whines.

"Daddy… are you going to marry Lilith?"

Silence stretches their void but Castiel cannot peer up to meet his father's eyes. In fact he drives his own to the fabric of his father's pajamas; he fears the question but even more the answer. Castiel knows it but doesn't want it spoken aloud, the words in the air would finally ring true and would no longer just be a fantasy in Castiel's head.

"I already have my darling." Castiel's head darts up, doe-eyed and disordered. Michael tucks a strand of wispy black hair behind Cas's left ear and cups his face with his other hand.

"While you were out with Dean Lilith and I were wed without ceremony. We feared the public's reaction to a new queen so quickly as they loved your mother so."

Castiel is caught between tears and shock and betrayal. His body aches, brain is jumbled. He thinks of his day with Dean, eating apples, discovering near the creek, returning the squab. All of this and Michael was already wed, wed to someone who didn't have his mother's drawl or scent. Castiel tries not to have his tears turn into wails, but in fact they mutate into something else entirely. He hides his head in his father's shirt collar.

"Shh Castiel, your mother will always be sacred to me. But Lilith is family now and you must treat her as such."

Castiel falls asleep, cradled and crying on his father's chest.

It reminds him again of when Anna died, and he feels goddamned weak.

* * *

"Please…please do not hurt him…" Castiel awakens. But he is cold. There is no satin, no warmth, and no rhythmic heartbeat. Just the bite of midnight air, Castiel cracks an eye, he immediately regrets it.

Against the parallel rests Michael, eyes widening they are projecting to Castiel as he rouses. Behind him lays Lilith, she has a blade tampered across Michael's throat, his Adam apple pressured beneath the steel. Lilith has both feet hooked around Michael's waist, and is lapping at a cut that had already been sliced across Michael's cheekbones. She purrs like a satisfied tigress and hums pleased, Castiel can't help but think she will devour his father right there in front of him.

Lilith supplies Castiel with a toothy grin once he is completely up, body rigid and sprawled as far as possible. His father closes his eyes and turns his mouth into a sour hard line, a tear slipping down his cheeks.

"Hello pretty." Lilith greets. Castiel feels his heart launch itself into his throat while his stomach drops to his knees. Never has he been so terrified, and he knows that there is no out. That this was planned all along, Lilith had never chuffed his face or kissed his lips with love. No, it was with amusement. Knowing what she wanted and would have, Castiel had been nothing but a play thing. Never had he felt so unbelievably dumb and helpless.

"So, so, pretty. I hear maybe even prettier than me one day…" Lilith twirls her tongue in the wound on Michael's cheek, he does not so much as flinch. "Won't that be interesting to see?"

"Please Lilith not my boy…my kingdom and crown but not my boy. Not Cas, please leave him be, he is but a child." Michael whimpers and begs for Castiel's life. He exchanges it for his own. "Those stories are only myth…"

"I suppose." Lilith burrs and hovers over Michael's ear. "But he'd be prettier red wouldn't he? Match those lips."

"NO." Michael full on shouts, his throat bulges against the cooled metal so much it slices. Castiel whimpers and feels wetness coat his cheeks, he had been crying but never noticed, the tears escalading quickly.

"Fine then. Spoil my fun." Lilith sing songs and digs the finality of the blade into Michael whose eyes roll back. Blood does not seep but pours from the wound, the tissue audibly rips and the blade furrows all the way until it bumps into Michaels spinal cord. Lodged, the man splutters, once, twice, then falls limp.

Castiel runs.

* * *

Scuttling out of the room he hears the shouts of Lilith 'GET HIM DON'T LET HIM GET FAR' and slaps his bare feet so fast he has no effort to actually breathe. In fact he is just holding his air and dashing like a bullet for the stairs, which he mounts the bannister and thanks all those mornings with Dean he practiced this skill.

Brandished down the hallway is another plethora of guards, they eye him warily. The blood has streaked down his face and night gown so he is nearly unrecognizable, but they quickly follow the boy out into the streets.

Outside it is chaos. A cornucopia of unfamiliar men donning pitch black suits are fighting the royal guard and slaughtering the townsfolk. Castiel trots through the mud in search of Dean or John, any of the royal guard to save him. Anything, anyone, please just to wretch him from this treacherous woman. To either be sliced open on the spot, or kept captive, Castiel wished for death.

"CAS. DAD WE NEED TO GET CAS." Dean's voice! It's loud and gruff and individual even above the mass screams. He dodges blades, and by steps the dead that clog the streets. Their blood soaks in his feet, toenails loose lodge in his skin. Castiel swivels and searches, but no Dean.

"NO. WHAT ARE YOU DOING? NO. CAS. CAS. CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAS."

"DEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN." Castiel shouts back, but already Dean's voice is fading. He spies a horse which seats a tuft of auburn hair, but Castiel fears it might just be a ruffled large hood. Nonetheless Castiel chases his target with velocity screaming through his raw throat. "DEEAAAAAAAN. HELP, PLEASE, DEEEEAAAN."

Castiel falls in a puddle that had been sullied to a deep set brown, a claw of stone catches his knees and he tumbles. Plunging into the street corner face first, Castiel feels his legs wind up and his limbs give. Sought and covered in blood, other than the stained print of his clothes there would be no way to tell if Castiel was royalty or not.

He doesn't even put up a fight when he is scooped up and immediately blacks out.

* * *

**Authors Notes: **Hope you guys liked it. It is a lot longer than I anticipated which is nice hopefully I'll get the next chapter out in two to three days. Also I don't have a beta so this is all just me so be kind please? (: Have a nice day guys.


	2. Unconventional Childhoods

**Title: **Crowned

**Summary: **AU. Destiel. Long ago a queen wished for a child with skin glossy as snow, hair jet as a raven's wing, and lips redder than blood. This child is borne, his story breeds grief, betrayal, honor and love. What will become of him? (Loosely based on Snow White and the Huntsmen)

**Author's Notes: **Hello guys! Just want to say thanks for the reviews they were encouraging and definitely helped with the writing process. Also I know there were some errors pointed out and I am going to fix that promise!

I am going to try to give you guys chapters as fast as I can! Also for the alerts/favorites there were a few of you guys who I LOVE your stories so I was very honored. Hope you like this one as well.

Oh and I have a tumblr the URL is theresotherworldsthanthese if you guys want I'd totally follow you (;

**Chapter Name: **Unconventional Childhoods

**Chapter Summary: **Castiel grows up in darkness, but does not linger.

* * *

_Skin stretches across the queen's body, rippling, and burning so bright it nearly clogs the sight of her sister. It stretches around her joints, lips, presses into her eyelids, until finally it settles, revealing a woman with glossed glowing features. Youth veils the queen nicely, plumps her lips and eases down the wrinkles. And oh, does she feel __**good**__. _

_A body of a blonde dress around her feet, the girl has gone stark white and figure has contorted into fabulous shapes. Moments ago, she had been gorgeous, the promise of many years to come etched into her bones. Now she appears to be nothing but an old hag, stringy hair and deep-set creases. The queen sniggers and traces her hand across the girl's wrist, bringing it to her lap._

_With a snap, Ruby trots over to the queen presenting a maple wood basin. The queen snatches it and twirls a small blade through her fingers. She listens to the girls gasps she lives still, and can probably be enough to suffice, so she slashes the weathered skin without mercy. Convulsions, once, twice, and then the body drops as the blood dispenses._

_How pretty, the queen thinks, dark red tracing maple._

_Brimming the basin, Lilith peers to her sister to remove the hand (which she does so willingly), and glares into the bubbling concoction. It hiccups in the air and then warps from sloshed blood to sharp angles, shimmered glass. A face, etched from the blades of glass, blinks up at the queen and gives an enchanting smile._

"_Azazel."_

"_My queen." Azazel smirks madly, and speaks before the queen can even say. "You still reign fairest of them all."_

_The queen snorts and scrunches her nose, annoyed at Azazel's outburst._

"_I have been facing more and more troubles with those demanded Huntsmen." She grunts, tracing a finger across the lip of the basin. "I need to know how to stop them."_

"_Oh my queen," Azazel sing songs, his grin has grown even wider if that was even possible, the yellows of his eyes bright as the sun. "The answer lies right in your castle. The boy, he is ready, ready to sap away, his strength will be enough, his beauty even more so." _

_Lilith furrows her brow. "The boy?" She then snaps and supplies a toothy smile. "Castiel Milton?"_

"_Why of course."_

_From the corners of her eye the queen can see it, the shuffling of a servant, nosy and probably in need of a good flogging. But her glee overshadows this, let the frightened mouse scurry for her wine is finally aged. She cracks a melodic laugh, rubs a finger to the chin of her glassy friend._

"_Well then, let Castiel see his queen."_

* * *

Castiel learns patience.

It is not only his first lesson but his greatest to achieve. Patience does not fill his belly, it does not flush his washed out skin, it does not quiet the heckling of the guards, nor does it wet his pallet. Castiel still twitches uncomfortably in the weathered wool blanket he nests in, and he still drones of blushes on freckles. But patience becomes not just a virtue, but a way to survive.

It allows the arduous hours to become incomprehensible. Bleeds the deteriorating crumbled rock walls into meshes of grey, makes the interruptions of screeching silence bearable. Castiel feels patience keep him at peace and deter him from madness.

On the Night of Broken Glass, as some guards whispered when Cas was _asleep, _Castiel awakens from an eighteen hour black out. He rouses curled in thick sheets, his body sore patched red, mind lagging from such cataclysmic events. The voice he awakens though shatters this veil of uncertainty, replacing it with fear.

"Good morning my pretty little son." Voice like poison shocks Castiel to consciousness. He unfurls shooting upright but feeling the catch of metal tongued around his wrist. Darting his eyes Cas spots his left wrist, he is shackled to the headboard. His heart throbs, has lodged itself into his throat, and suddenly Cas has lost his breath. Obviously this reaction registers on Castiel's face because the moment his eyes meet villainous amber he catches a sinister grin.

Lilith is one foot from Castiel's bed she is clothed in a delicate ivory gown that highlights the sunned tones of her skin. Precious gems adorn her chest, her hair is twisted into an intricate bun (its preparation must have taken hours), and a thin golden veil traces her features gingerly. There is no other word to describe her but elegant, resembling a gentle sprite. If only it wasn't for the sword, tentatively rested against her cheek, pungent with blood grasped in her palm… a sword Castiel recognized. With the blue stone crested against the indentation of a feather embedded in the heart of steel there is no doubt this sword belonged to his father. A weapon which caused whole kingdoms to tremble now rests near the lip of a bloodthirsty wench.

Castiel had never felt such avid rage.

Without warning Cas lurches forward. He nearly forgets the bound on his wrist leaving it bedraggled as his whole body is surged towards Lilith. Red bruises blossom but he cares not, all he wishes is to wrench that heirloom from that bitch's hand and then to die himself. There was nothing left for him. No mother, no father, no kingdom, not even Dean. He'd much rather suffer beneath his family's knife than kneel any longer to such a traitor.  
Lilith barks out a laugh, swiveling Michael's blade as she did so, dropping to her knees so she could meet livid blue. "Did you know when you're angry your eyes darken?" She asks, tilting her head to examine Castiel's features. Normally Castiel would redden and race his eyes to the floor, but instead he challenges her silently, eyes darker than deep sea. "Like the sea at storm. It is quite pretty actually."

She laughs once more and then huffs, shuffling back to the balls of her feet. Castiel does not move an inch, but while Lilith scans his cell he takes a moment to examine it as well. Grimy walls, leaks drooling sullen water, rat bungalows burrowed in the foundation, it was a prisoners cell. One that by the looks of it, never saw the light of day. The only trace of the outside world was a small window, a foot and a half tall with solid iron teeth. Sunlight licks through this entrance, it is enough for Castiel to think of creeks and apples and squabs. It is enough for him to nearly burst into tears.

"Why haven't you killed me?" Castiel's voice is grim. Still he is infuriated but he has managed to suppress his emotions enough to yield his expression deadpan. Michael taught his son early in life, that to show anger was just as weak as to show fear. Castiel did not want to give Lilith the satisfaction; he wanted her to tremble at the sight of him. Lilith eyes Castiel, wickedness shrouding her smile.

"Even as a young boy, so serious. You never seem to be…." She taps her chin, scrutinizing the ceiling. "_Having fun. _That's it. Something so pretty should always be having fun."

"You killed my family and stolen my throne. How does that pertain to fun?"

"Now, now, can't still be upset about that?" Lilith edges closer to Cas her eyes burning, bright and malicious. With each step, Castiel shrinks and furrows his brow until she is nearly nosing his cheek. Her breath is hot, low, and sickly sweet, Castiel wonders if this is what blood smells of. "Here's some advice build a bridge and get over it."

"NOOO-." Castiel screeches, begins to rattle his chains and wiggle uncontrollably from her grasp but Lilith has two hands tightened around his mouth. She gazes at him for a moment and then presses a kiss upon his brow.

"Some say that you are destined to be the most beautiful creature on this land…even me." Another malevolent grin crawls on her lips, a tangle of brisk blonde meanders over her eyes. "I find this intriguing. How any creature, especially one so tattered and young, could surpass my beauty?"

Castiel breaks free from her hold, he catches his breath and finds his voice buried so deeply in his lungs. "Then why don't you just kill me already!"

Lilith stands and ignores him until she reaches the prison door. Grazing a palm against the handle she runs her tongue over her teeth and then the folds of peach lips. The pit of Castiel's stomach drops, a weird scald grips his throat. He nearly uses his free hand to catch his neck, terrified Lilith has used magiks to rid of him.

"Oh my young son I have plans for you."

Lilith eyes burned white without pupils, she then exited Castiel's cell.

Ever since this night Castiel has not set foot outside his chamber with the exception on his birthday. Though he was no longer manacled, Castiel attended all his business in a twenty by twenty damp brick compartment. Early on he learned to not get attached to food, for the richest he would receive was dried salted meat and stale whole bread. Not only that but to not expect it to arrive regularly, though normally food was stuffed through a tray twice a day for Castiel, there had been slip ups. Two, three, (and at most extreme four), days without food, maybe for penalty or malicious intent… maybe Castiel had been bunkered so long in his cell the guards barely remember, there was no way of knowing. Water was normally supplied along with these meals though lacking it was never a problem. Castiel had laundered a glass long ago where he collected emergency rain water to drink out of. And lastly in the corner of his cell was a bucket for Castiel's waste. It was emptied from time to time, but sometimes left to stink for weeks at a time.

Though these conditions squandered Castiel's body, making him bony and sickly pale, he still grew to be an iridescent beauty. A shock of black hair puffed from his brow (the queen was fond of it and had it regularly trimmed), he grew tall and lean with petal shaped lips and sea foam eyes. The queen had not been wrong. But alas it did not benefit Castiel and instead had guards and other malicious prisoners' cat-call or badger him. Their threats of rape and skewed compliments causing Castiel to shrink out of sight, he hated this beauty targeting him as delicate.

Castiel attained his greatest joys from three things. The first would be the benign prisoners that were admitted into the cell bank. Though Castiel never took pleasure in seeing innocents being wrongfully tried, he did so love the conversation they gave. Every time a new prisoner was sentenced Castiel would eye through his bars to catch a glance, and if they seemed lost and gentle he would greet them. Over the years Castiel had spoken to a many of townsfolk, farmers, senators, knight's guard, widows, and even children, but never had he revealed himself. Instead Castiel would paint himself as "Jimmy Novak", a man who had been accused of treason by being in possession of spell books, and delve into these strangers' lives. It was exciting, leaving Castiel with a thrill stuttering in his heart, plus the townsfolk were so kind it nearly had Castiel forgetting about his circumstances.

Secondly would be his love for books. The first few months of Castiel's banishment he had met Balthazar, a servant to the queen who sometimes supervised him. At first Castiel regarded Balthazar just as untrustworthy as his employer, until the man took pity upon the boy watching him slowly loose his mind, and handed him a book. The books were always without covers. Torn from their bindings as the guards insisted the hard edges could be wielded as a weapon, it was just a spine with dampened papers. But it was no matter, the books held other worlds, sometimes they were nonfiction instructing Castiel the mechanics of ship making or tending to an herbal garden. Other times they were epic works of fiction, tales of knights in armor and ships battling toe-to-toe with sea serpents. Balthazar brought them frequently, for he favored Castiel, looked upon the young boy with pity and affection. The two sparked a friendship that Castiel treasured, Balthazar becoming a preserver of his sanity.

Thirdly was Balthazar's greatest gift and largest crime. Every year since Castiel was ten years old he had pocketed the keys to Castiel's cell and led him to the gardens on his birthday. It was only at night, the castle lulled by darkness, servants and guards alike sleepily unaware. Castiel's birthday was in spring, so the night would warm and misty with mosquitos. Most of the vegetation were either blooming or had thick buds, night flowers unfolding in silver moonlight. Dewed grass slid between Castiel's bare feet and the hum of crickets filled his ears. Never had he felt such peace but on these nights.

When Castiel had turned twelve, Balthazar led Castiel deeper than the gardens instead guiding him to the training fields. Neglected, the fields now sprouted long stalks of weeds and tangles of saw grass. Animals had nested in thick sprouts of shrubbery and ivy twisted around the targets. But nonetheless the targets remained, some staggering on one leg.

The sight of Michael's once glorious practice tracks, now dilapidated and wild, did evoke grief in Castiel. But what really drew his attention was what lay beyond, the Black Forest. Ominous, shadowy, it seemed to swallow up all its surroundings. Lapping away the trees and undergrowth edging its tongue. How easy it could be for one to disappear in such a place, never surface again. Castiel's legs burned with the thought of escape.  
He had never dared before, the gardens were too congested, too many people patrolling the castle's perimeters, and Balthazar was too close. But now, it was only Balthazar, unarmed, unfocused, Balthazar. How easy would it be for Castiel to bolt from his side? Lunge forward, arms pumping, legs scalding like coals to a fire. He would run until his lungs collapsed ice cold with night wind, and heart gave out to exhaustion. Run to freedom, or as close as Castiel would get, this would be his moment after four years of imprisonment.

But Balthazar was already a step ahead, for cold metal coiled around Castiel's ankle, the snap finality of any thoughts on escape. Balthazar chuckled, squatting and leering up at Cas with kind eyes. The two were now linked by a thick metal chain encircling Castiel's left ankle and Balthazar's right. Once again, Castiel was prisoner he could not help but deflate at the sight.

"Sorry Cassie, I can't let you out there you know that. Besides you wouldn't last a night in the Black Forest."

Castiel huffed, rising his foot to scratch the collar on his ankle. He didn't blame Balthazar for the bindings (though he did wish somewhere deep inside that Balthazar would change his mind…), he knew the cost just for taking Castiel to the gardens. No, no Castiel was grateful, content to just feel the wind again.

"No. It was a hopeful stupid thought." Over the years Castiel had grown a deadpan sense of the world. Nowhere near the inquisitive polite boy he had once been, sponged away by harsh incarceration. Balthazar's grin was wiped off as he noticed the boy's disappointment.

"Maybe," Castiel perked at this, tilting his head and gazing at Balthazar with surprise. Maybe? As in….not so dumb to think of escape…? Balthazar though changes subject as he rustles through his saddle bag, wringing out an ample bow. The bow, even in the night, could be seen as thick with dark red maple wood. It wasn't the most flexible of bows Castiel could tell by the curvature, it was stout and dense. But nonetheless the string was corded, solid, power rested in its curve. Castiel's breath tore from his body.  
"_Buuuuuut _I brought you here to play with your birthday present."

Castiel would spend his birthdays in these fields, practicing diligently. The bow proved to be too large for Castiel at first; Balthazar had to help him grasp the weapon completely. But he grew into the weapon with time, until it cringed beneath Castiel's wiry arms. Hours and hours he would shoot. Eyes adjusting to the shadows of nighttime, the dark rings of the targets brightening with time, so Castiel could find his objective. He grew adept at the bow, fingers glossing over the polished maple with ease, the string and arrow becoming home. Balthazar would praise him, and the two would enjoy goat cheeses and dried fruits along the reeds.

Though his bow was stashed by Balthazar once pink tinged the skies, Castiel made sure his practice would not go to waste. Even without a longbow Castiel found ways to sharpen his skills. Regularly he would practice form with similar warped branches Balthazar would smuggle him. Along with that he frequently toned his arms by doing push-ups, crunches, and pull ups on the pipe protruding from his walls when the guards slept. These trails protruded his skin with thin but strong muscles, wiry due to malnutrition but enough for Castiel to feel confident if a guard overstepped his boundaries. This also kept Castiel scurrying around his cell at night and sleeping intermediately throughout the day.

These small routines, gifts, _legalities, _they kept Castiel sane. Kept him vital, his mind sharp, kept the stormy walls from closing in and extinguishing all that made Castiel. Patience made him approachable, made the days waterfall into one another. Suppressed the "what ifs", the traumatizing memories, the uncompromising future. Drove him to reality once he drifted to marsh green eyes… But what really drove Castiel was revenge. Day dreams of Lilith's screams, and her guards pleads, of the kingdom set ablaze.

Blood clouding milky charcoal rimmed eyes.

* * *

Today the queen faces something she has never set eyes on in her twelve years of rule.

Two Huntsmen who are in fact… Hunts_women_.

The idea nearly causes her to howl in laughter, bust her gut right in the folly of the throne room. But years of idle face contortion sustained the malicious light in her eye and deadpan smile. What a joke the Huntsmen had dwindled into, once the Royal Guard and now fugitive militia who couldn't even separate sexes. It brought Lilith a delicious joy, watching boys with swords too heavy, and old men too weak to hold them, fall beneath her soldiers. The Huntsmen though, despite Lilith's annoyance, proved again and again to resurrect themselves in downfall. Never did the mercenaries perish completely always a few ghosting into safety. They were Lilith's last true enemy, last obstacle before gearing her reins over the entire realm. A goal she lusted for since she clawed through hells gates, sister latched to her heels.

Ruby, Lilith's doting black-eyed parallel, was attending by her throne finicky and impatient. Hunger for bloodshed resonating in her eyes (though they were not entirely consuming for the castle and town folk knew not of her and her sister's origins) these two had recently slaughtered half her battalion and Ruby thirsted for revenge. It was surprising to say the least, but reinforcements soon brought the women to their knees. Ruby wouldn't rest until the two were shackled, mind clouded with pride. Some would say this was her greatest trait. But Ruby was stupid, impulsive, and hooked on carnage, which was why older sister lead while younger followed. Natural order of things, and though Ruby was spontaneous she was also fiercely loyal, happy to submit.

Lilith grinned madly her sister was just as easy a pawn as these retched humans.

"May I present to the queen, prisoners of war, Ellen and daughter Joanna Harvelle." A mousy soldier called and tucked himself back into his armor.

Mother and daughter? How interesting. And the surname Harvelle? Even more so. Lilith nearly remembered Harvelle, the man who spawned this family, William? Yes, yes of course. Joanna was no doubt his child, striking blonde hair tangled in a braid and murderous bark eyes. What strife, a fury that Lilith only seen few behold. William had shared this same gape even as the sword pierced his throat.  
Ellen on the other hand displayed more poise than her daughter, tattered but reserved she was quietly ingesting the situation. Mapping her next move maybe, the brains of the duo while her daughter served as the brawn. She knew this woman had single handedly exterminated the king but also her late husband. Yes, a thoughtful woman indeed, Lilith minded this mentally sparing her.

"Ahhh Harvelle, I know this name." Lilith coos and eyes Joanna Harvelle. She is met with a heavy glare. "William Harvelle's lot I assume? Never thought he'd let his wife and child jump into the fire as well."

Graceful, Lilith extends a hand asking for escort to the prisoners. Paraded down the stairs like a swan descending a riverbank, she raises a hand to the cheek of Joanna. What soft supple skin, unmarred by wars, she is young and not even close to a soldier. Lilith ponders if Joanna had ever killed a man before she set foot upon the battlefield today. The girl shrieks and jumps from Lilith's fingers, spitting on them muddied saliva.

"Do NOT speak of my father that way!" Joanna screeches her mother grows still as stone.

"Jo, please, do not—"

"Oh please Ellen," Lilith croons and latches a hand (still slick with spittle) into the nest of Joanna's braid. She yanks the youth's head and leans forward, noses barely brushing. Joanna has withdrawn her lips to a pink line, her eyes swollen with rage and _fear_. Oh Lilith likes that, she likes that a lot. "Let me discipline the girl."

Lilith inclines towards Joanna's ear; her breath is putrid sending chills down Joanna's spine. Her voice is husky, and it makes Jo think that if the devil were real he would sound like Lilith. "I can speak of your filthy father however I like. I was the one who sticked him when John Winchester retreated to his sons. Right through the jaw, he whimpered like a kicked dog."

A pinch twitches in the queens left side.

Protruding from her oiled blue dress was a dagger, a hands tall and wide, sheened in blood. Small enough to fit in the heel of Joanna's boot, of course, how was it so easily mistaken?

Well this was new.

Joanna sheathed a toothy impish smirk, eyes bright with glee. Ellen, on the other hand, was agape with terror. But Lilith… Lilith couldn't help but laugh. No, not laugh, squeal. Head thrown back, stomach about to burst, she tightens her hold on Joanna's braid and tugs it back and forth. The girl is thrown along with the entire throne room, all of them trembling cautious. The queen rarely showed such vivacious behavior, and as she slid out the blade only her dress wounded, they soon knew why.

"Oh ho ho, that is funny my dear." Lilith then jerks stunned Joanna to her feet. "And incredibly stupid."

"Oh please! Please my queen, take me in her stead! She is young and senseless. Please I beg of you!" Ellen pleads for her daughter's life while Joanna feels cotton balls line her throat. But Lilith has now a lined the dagger burned black by her blood now poked incessantly into Joanna's breastplate. Such a waste of promise, Lilith reflects, a fiery contender indeed.

"You dare defend a life who has committed treason!" Ruby pipes up; wrath has lightened her body ablaze. No one has struck her sister since her last mission. Little sister deemed worthless if her duty as guardian stripped away by a blonde maggot. Lilith reminds herself to scold baby sister when in private.

Lilith presses and sees skin break deliciously, Joanna has sunk into shock.

"Please, oh please my queen, please do not kill her." Ellen is on her hands and knees, groveling at the feet of Lilith planting kisses on her slippers. Fish hooked lip raises from Lilith the tears are seeping through the satin. Joanna shrivels like a rabbit caught in a trap, but Lilith studies her face, pretty maybe pretty enough. The mud that caked her cheeks hid peachy blushed skin and sharp features. Yes, she was pretty. And how did the queen love pretty things.

"Fine." Lilith compromises and shrugs weeping Ellen from her toes. "Take her to the cellblock."

"My queen! Please in my pla—"

"I have spared her life. That is more than enough." Lilith barks, stern amber eyes daring the throne room. "She will live."

* * *

Chirping, Hermes the fluffed dove nuzzled its way through iron bars.

Castiel had begun calling the creature Hermes after he devoured Balthazar's book on Greek mythology. He had adored it so much he asked for its bindings several times. The multitude of gods and the colorful stories that adorned them left Castiel winded, wanting more. Worlds where simple worship, adoration for deities, and morale, could lead to fantastic events. Granting mortals gifts of nature, elemental control, oracle sight-seeing, even flight. Flight maybe entranced Castiel most of all. Escape, a persistent voice on his skull. Which was why when the little dove arrived, looking sullen at Castiel's crumbs, he had dubbed him Hermes. The mischievous god with little winged boots fit the bird rightly, as it hopped on sodden rock.

Hermes had grown to be Castiel's second companion, a frequent visitor to his cell, always inquisitive for Castiel's leftovers and soft hand. The bird rested calmly in his palm and nipped at the pads of his fingers affectionately. The task of nurturing the ruffled god kept Castiel's mind busy, serene by Herme's pleasant companionship. Though the bird served no use and (to Balthazar's dismay) would gobble up Castiel's rations, he was thankful. It renewed the love for nature that he missed so much.

"Good morning Hermes." Hermes cheeped in retaliation and nosed beneath Castiel's thumb. "Have you been flying well today?"

Hermes did not respond but instead continued cheeping and pinching Castiel's knuckles. He was more energized than normal, the way he kept pulling at Castiel's fingers as if he was urging him to join him in flight. Castiel found it strange using his index finger to align Herme's disheveled feathers.

"Nervous today, are we?" Hermes peeped insistently and returned to his inspections.

The heavy footfall and drag of cobbled stones perked Castiel from his play. Guards (who had been absent all morning) were muttering excitedly, a key nosily pried a lock open, a body deposited with an 'oomphf'. Another prisoner. Even if he didn't wish to admit it Castiel bobbed up eagerly, there hadn't been a new prisoner in weeks now. Castiel suspected this was because the Huntsmen had kept the queen so busy she had no time to arrest townsfolk for meager crimes. No matter, hopefully this prisoner was one Castiel could interact with and not another gruff Huntsmen awaiting death.

Castiel caught himself, what a terrible thought, he loathed himself for it.

After about ten minutes of shuffling feet, Castiel is greeted with promising silence. Guards have deposited themselves around the castle, they nearly never saw reason to inhabit the cell block with only two inhabitants. The prisoner has seemed to also be waiting, for a broken sob penetrates the air. Castiel instantly recognizes the feminine moans, a woman. Women were common for the cellblock, the queen constantly was imprisoning them for short periods of time. Castiel props Hermes on his shoulder, whom has taken upon himself to cuddle inherently against his pulse point, and supports himself through the door's iron barricades. Voice, weak and gentle, interrupts the cries.

"Hello." Castiel warmly greets, he curls a hand around metals. "My name is Jimmy Novak. Are you hurt?"

Whimpers quiet to snuffles once Castiel speaks, the stranger contemplating on her intruder. Normally, prisoners did not speak to Castiel for a few hours but would surrender later torn by loneliness. This one though seemed more willing, Castiel could hear the girl stumble up to her door as well. Drawn dark eyebrows and wrinkled nose leave the girl with an apprehensive look. She is beautiful, this is true, raggedy golden hair does not subtract from her ample curved cheekbones and sorrowful wide eyes. A blush glowed in her skin while tear stains lapped their way to her puckered mouth, yes quite beautiful indeed. This was never a good sign. Beauty meant they would take you sooner.

Hermes spoke up again, jealous from lack of attention and seeking Castiel's fingers. Cas quieted the creature by stroking a bent flayed wing, and gave an encouraging smile to the distrustful girl. She scowled at the dove and then back at Castiel, her eyes held a vast of emotion Castiel couldn't help but be thrown by it. Suspicion, vehemence, anguish, how could all of these exist inside one straying look? Such a look could strike a person breathless, have them kneeling for forgiveness, Castiel hasn't felt anything since so fiercely since his father died. Sometimes he wonders if he could feel anything but vengeance, it was such a present familiar passenger he never wondered its presence. Would he ever love anything or anyone to capture such a look? Or has Lilith sapped even that away from him? The thought terrified him to no end, and Castiel couldn't help but notice that even the horror did dwell.

"What is that…. animal?" The woman voiced, Castiel grinned like a mad man and glanced at Hermes.

"This is Hermes, a Eurasian collared dove." Castiel nudged the dove's beak towards the girl. "He is named after Hermes, the Greek messenger god, who had wing tailed feet."

Nodding, the woman furrowed her brow at Hermes who had resumed chirping happily despite the dank of his environment. Castiel squeezed a bread crumb from his pocket and offered it to Hermes, who squinted but guzzled down the prize.

"You've tamed him?"

"No. Wild animals can't ever really be tamed. But I believe he is pleased when I feed him." Castiel felt pride as the little thing burrowed back beneath his neck, content to fall asleep. The boy gawked at the girls necktie, she was wearing a Huntsmen collar, and he couldn't help but feel his jaw drop. Confused at first the girl jumped nearly and gripped tightly at her throat, but it was too late Cas had already spotted the attire.

"You are a Huntsman?" Castiel inquired, puzzled for he had never seen woman Huntsmen before. It wasn't unheard of, women gearing for battle, but for one so young and womanly it did strike Castiel as odd. The girl withdrew the grimace plastered on her face and exhaled a sigh.

"Yes. Well… I was… seems like I wasn't meant to be one for long."

"I see." Hermes coos gently, fallen asleep in the crest of Castiel's shoulder. Nervously Castiel pats his fingers.

"Do I know you?" Castiel blinks slowly, trying to recall the girls face. But she is unbeknownst to him, though Castiel had forgotten many faces in his years here. Even Dean had become blurred at the edges, crinkled nose and moss eyes smudged. "I feel like I know you."

"No. I do not believe so."

"Oh. Well… I'm Joanna Harvelle. Jo I suppose."

"Jimmy Novak."

"Yes I know."

"Do you know anything on the subject of blacksmithing?" Jo tilts her head confused at Castiel's comment but he remains stony. The girl shifted uncomfortably but kept her fingers intertwined between the bars.

"Erm yeah a little why do you ask?" Joanna twists her lips in her mouth, suckling on the rosy skin. Castiel huffs out a sigh, finding it difficult to converse he hadn't done so in such a long time.

"Does it bother you that I am curious? I just finished reading an encyclopedia and read an article about it, I considered you as one to ask questions on the matter."

And all of a sudden Jo has her head cocked back and righteous laughter tumble from her mouth. Crinkled shiny eyes open, brimmed with tears, and she loops a hand around her gut. Castiel just stands, stunned and partially perturbed. But Joanna takes no heed to Castiel's uncomfortable aura and instead continues to chortle for a goof five minutes, muttering something on how 'she never thought she'd be mistaken for anything other than an old maid.' Still muddled, Castiel just cups his face to the burning blush that buoys to his cheeks whilst Hermes awakens grouchily biting.  
Jo eventually calms, wipes stray tears from her eyes, and then asks Cas what his questions are.

For the next few hours the two exchange stories, tips, blacksmithing techniques, and herbal remedies, the two conversing swimmingly. Joanna isn't too anxious by Castiel's blank stares, in fact she finds them 'charmingly real, refreshing'. Castiel notes her response eagerly, for though prisoners had shown affection towards him, he found they were always edgy to his deadpan gawps. And while Joanna feels at rest beneath Cas's eyes, Castiel finds himself acquitting to the girls cheer quickly. Sunny and bright, the girl has an air of fearlessness around her that Castiel envies and adores. Once she speaks of her crime, slashing into the torso of a feared queen, Castiel can't help but not be surprised. The spitfire of a girl proclaims over and over how she doesn't regret a thing, wishes she could slice into the bitch another time. But a glimmer of distress swims in her eyes once she speaks of her mother, waiting for her daughter to perish. Terrible, terrible, selfish thing, Jo recites to herself like a prayer and Castiel silently laments with her.

She then begins to ask questions, which is rare. Castiel has always been the one to listen, as a child he had heeded Dean's stories and rampages, attended to his father's orders, even his mother's gentle wishes. And now all Castiel did was listen, he obeyed Lilith and her ruthless guards, coaxed fellow prisoners their stories, Castiel was made to listen. He had no idea how to partake information about _himself. _That was unheard of. Sure, give the coordinates to rumored gold sites, or horse feeding alternatives, but personal thoughts were out of the question. One after another Castiel dodged Joanna's questions, supplying her with slippery vague answers and aliases to confound her. Thwarting her means of extraction proved to be difficult though, she had already talked about herself already. Which to an extent was true, Jo had reminisced stories of gathering honeysuckle as a child, the knee-buckling news of her father's death, the training as Huntsmen she had valiantly strived for, the one and only crush that slipped from her fingers, yes Jo had spoken for hours. Now she was sick of relaying her life, she was interested in the wide-eyed kind stranger. Wanted to know why those deep set blue seemed so infuriatingly familiar.

"Please Jimmy just tell me, where did you grow up?"

Castiel leans against the grubbed walls, giving an exasperated sigh. The two had resigned to peeking from their peep holes, now just letting their voices carry as they rest in their respective cells. Hermes is long gone, never one to stick around long, and Castiel wishes for his distraction as each question comes.

"Joanna I can hardly see why this is important."

"I told you Jimmy, call me _Jo. _And don't avoid the question! Was it in the village?" Jo angrily taps against her steel headboard, the bed proving to be an adequate punching bag to her frustration.

"If it pleases you, yes, you could say that." Castiel morphing his answers so he doesn't have to lie himself in a hole. The constant spotlight on him was making him nervous.

"What kind of answer is that?"

"I thought you were merely looking for an answer Joanna."

"Ugh! You are so annoying!" Jo puffs irritably and resumes her drumming over steel. "So stubborn on your personal life, you're even worse than Dean!"

Castiel stills feeling his skin blossoms with goose pimples, a sinking sensation pits in his stomach and all of a sudden he feels nauseated. Dean…as in Dean Winchester? Was it possible for Joanna to know of Dean? Of how he is and if he still lives? If he is still searches for Castiel?

He shrinks into the shadowed corner of his cell. Preposterous, as if Dean Winchester still even wastes a moment of thought on the disowned prince. It had been a lifetime ago, the two had been just brash children, normal adults would have led such a fleeting friendship go by now. Of course, normal adults hadn't been locked away in a chamber for the majority of their lives. Castiel rakes a hand through his hair, tugging it into an even messier state (if that was even possible) suppressing a groan. Inner turmoil, forbidding and imploring him to ask for the surname of Joanna's Dean the words fall from his mouth before he can even think twice.

"Jimmy…?" Joanna inquires, and Castiel then forgets that he hasn't spoken in so long. What stupidity, what foolishness, how can he even…

"When you say Dean… do you mean Dean Winchester?"

Silence greets Castiel, and he shamefully bends his head to rest on his knees. Oh god, he is such an idiot, not only has he scared away Jo but completely embarrassed himself. Cas pulls at his lips, fearful for Jo's response and even more so the mute atmosphere. Skin hot and prickly Castiel scratches at the enflamed shivers, and tries to swallow the heart that had wedged in his throat.

"Oh my god…you're Castiel Milton aren't you?"

Before Castiel can rise to his door window, the scuffle of boots meet his ears. Three guards, grim expressions armed with keys, unlatch Joanna from her cell. She kicks, and screams, screeches for Castiel, for her life and her mother and everything. Castiel shouts, asks her how she knows his name, begs for the guards to release the maiden. But they ignore his shouts, wrenching Jo into a pair of handcuffs that link her wrists and ankles. Jo though never answers Castiel's questions, she just wails his name. Over and over again, until her voice disperses behind the thick barred door of the cellblock.

Castiel falls to his knees, shuddering beneath the impact of his own tears.

* * *

Balthazar shakes Castiel awake, with two hands clamped to his shoulders and a harsh whisper.

"Cassie? Cassie? Eh boy, get up. You need to wake up." Balthazar's accented voice pours into Castiel's ears like cold ice. Startled, he rouses with sticky tear streaks and hands still tightened desperately around his middle. He had fallen asleep cradling himself through tears, knowing Joanna's fate, knowing there was an answer she had he yearned for. Aching he barely noticed Balthazar, even once the man laces a hand around the boys middle to drag him to his feet. All he can feel is how monstrous this world is, and how he wishes he could leave it. Maybe rejoin his parents.

"Here," Balthazar unfolds a blackened shawl made of dense patterned wool. He drapes the cloth around Castiel's shoulders, numbly Castiel glances at the shawl. Nothing other than the gray uniform for prisoners had ornamented Cas's body for years, it was strange to see navy set against his skin. "We need to leave."

"Balthazar… today is not my birthday…"

"I know Cassie."

"Then what are you doing?" Balthazar jerks Castiel's prisoner chamber door open, and cups his elbow urging him from his room. His skin, now more clear beneath the lanterns, is ghostly sheened with sweat. Panic has seeped into his eyes, his body movements twitch considerably. Castiel feels his head clear enough to note that something is seriously wrong with Balthazar, and not just because he has led Castiel from his tomb.

Balthazar then folds himself in a matching version of Castiel's shawl and draws the hood past his ears. Castiel mocks Balthazar and tugs the material closer to him, the warmth inviting after so many years in cold stone. Withdrawing a bag, Balthazar rummages through the purse for a moment before he removes the prize, a longbow. Elegant, carved from sap wood no doubt, bleached white with graceful swells, Castiel's mouth drops at the sight. What a wonder, expensive, and Balthazar hands it to _him._

"What…why..?" Castiel gapes, at a loss for words, the weapons is slick and light in his hands.

"For protection, we need to go before the guards come." Balthazar then extracts another purse from his side and stuffs it towards Castiel who grips it uncertain of its purpose. "Food, money, enough to get you by."

"I just don't understand."

"I need to get you out Castiel. It's time. I can't watch you die today."

Frozen, Castiel knows, today the queen must have called for him. For his skin and bones to be served to her on a platter, maybe she had finally gotten sick of playing with her food, finally willing to bite. Fear claws its way into Castiel's spine and he follows Balthazar with fervor. Eyes cast down, hood breaching half his face, just as Balthazar instructs. Thankfully the two don't bump into any guards on their descent from the cellblock, but as they meander around the castle walls (which Castiel is flabbergasted at the changes having not seen his home in the light for years) they begin to hear the pickup of whispers of escapees. Castiel heart flounders in his chest and he grasps Balthazar's hand tighter than he ever has before. Finally, he is leaving, he doesn't know why Balthazar is choosing this but he can't even fathom how thankful he is. Just seeing the sun gives Castiel a childlike glee he hasn't encountered since that day by the creek bank.

Balthazar leads Castiel to a stable, which is empty with the exception of one mare. Stocky, she snorts at Castiel fondly and rests her snowy snout against his palm. Grinning, Castiel hooks his purse around her middle along with a sandal wood saddle. Balthazar fastens a quiver across the slope of Castiel's shoulders and equips him with forty arrows, just as glossy as their counterpart.

Castiel then launches himself at Balthazar once the man finishes, arms wrapped around his torso with ferocity.

"Balthazar, please, come with me." Castiel begs, he knows the price for Balthazar's deed. The thought of seeing his beloved friend beckoned in bloodshed broke something inside of him. Balthazar was a true and precious friend, something Castiel didn't want to lose ever again. He didn't know the man's reasoning's, but he knew that maybe if he rode alongside Castiel that he could be spared. The two living in exile, but at least living, he desperately prays for the response but instead Balthazar lightly snickers.

"Oh darling, no, there is no room."

"Then we can run!"

"No, they will catch you." Shouts, heard from a distance have begun to increase in volume. Castiel hears his name, hears death threats, and feels his knees buckle from fear. They were gaining, they had noticed, and the finality of their actions crept up on him like a lioness upon her prey.

All of a sudden he is pushed into the horse until he is straddling the saddle, Balthazar overlooks the stable doors as they begin to rattle from guards thumps and grunts. Castiel looks to his friend, knowing this is the last time the two will see each other and tries to speak but only a squeak escapes his lips.

"It's been a pleasure Cassie."

Balthazar then slaps the rear of the mare and she liftoffs like a cannon. Castiel rides, trying to forget the screams that follow him.

* * *

**Authors Notes: ** FUCK YES. You guys have no idea how hard it was to write those final parts… well you might because they suck. It was just really hard to get the words out because I am always writing at night and it is sort of exhausting. I'm already so drained by then that I can barely type. BUUUUUT I didn't want to disappoint and this kept bothering me so here is another chapter! I hope you guys liked it and if there are any errors that are really bothering you tell me (but nicely please?). I feel like I just conquered the world, FREE CHOCOLATE FOR EVERYONE.


	3. Deals That Are Made to Be Broken

**Name: **Crowned

**Summary: **AU. Destiel. Long ago a queen wished for a child with skin glossy as snow, hair jet as a raven's wing, and lips redder than blood. This child is borne, his story breeds grief, betrayal, honor and love. What will become of him? (Loosely based on Snow White and the Huntsmen)

**Author's Notes: **Hello guys! So I just want to say WOW last chapter of this story got a lot more attention than I anticipated! Honestly guys I am so thankful to know people are reading and enjoying this, it makes the progress go by so smoothly. I didn't release this chapter as fast because I've been visiting my sister but I didn't want you guys to wait too long.

I don't want to make this lengthy (because I hate that in A/N) but I just wanted to address some questions. Toki Asamia: Castiel and Dean are twenty years old. Sorry for not actually stating that, but the two were eight when separated and now the story is set twelve years later. Also yes magiks was on purpose, sometimes I like to add the old English flair to this story so that isn't a typo. Thanks for the wonderful review and advice!

**Chapter: **Deals That Are Meant to Be Broken

**Chapter Summary: **Dean wallows his sorrow, too broken to bear vengeance.

* * *

"_You mean to tell me little sister," Lilith tightens her death hold. Ruby squirms and tongue begins to wet her lips. "That the ONE thing I ask for you to do… you LET ESCAPE!"_

_Lilith's roars echo her chambers, Ruby whimpers at her sister's grip, and Azazel hums happily. The three paint an unorthodox picture, Lilith thinks to herself, what sick fairytale did they live in anyway? _

_She releases her sister, who gasps and paws her way to the hem of Lilith's dress. Apologies waterfall from her mouth, tears soak her cheeks but she knows her sister bares no sympathy. Today Lilith had suffered a huge defeat, and all because of one measly servant. Even his petulant screams did not ease the queen as she ripped out his beating heart. Blood still crusted her gloves and caked her corset, but no matter. Now she had a bigger problem. Castiel, the king's true heir, has escaped into the Black Forest. _

_This would mean one of two things. One, Castiel is dead. Gobbled up by the jungle creatures, or driven mad from dehydration. Or two, Castiel is alive and meandering through the forest. Ultimately leading to the Huntsmen, a man the organization would no doubt assist. Not only would Lilith not reap her prize, but it might actually rear up and bite her._

_Rage tore at her insides._

_Another assault on Ruby and she breaks beneath the Queen's hand. She giggles happily and squeezes Ruby's chin to force the demon to look her in the eye. _

"_I know someone!" Ruby begs, face puffed with tears and exhaustion. "Someone to lead us."_

"_And who, my pretty sissy, would that be?"_

* * *

It's not every day that someone can say they woke up to a goat greeting them.

Lately though, it seems Dean Winchester has been breaking _all _kinds of tradition.

Body knotted, Dean rouses to Marlene's tongue swathing his face and Impala chewing on the leather of his boots. Annoyed by such a rude awakening, he flexes his arms popping his joints back into place and shoving Marlene's eager mouth away. Marlene, the goat in question, was a haggard speckled thing with bulbous darting eyes and scratchy scruff that was currently sliding across Dean's cheek. The goat had taken a particular liking to the ex-Huntsman, soon replacing Impala's position as annoying-as-fuck-animal-that-wakes-him-up-at-the-butt-ass-crack-of-dawn. A gurgled 'baa' escaped Marlene's lips and she gritted her teeth in Dean's shirt collar urging him up. Hungry and being one of the two animals Dean was responsible for now he angrily swatted her away and scanned the stables. Impala was curled around his ankles, lovingly munching on his laces now. She perked her ears as Dean arose, yipping lightly in greeting, and resumed on Dean's boots. He reached out and clamped a gloved hand on the mutt's muzzle, patting her mussed fur before stumbling to his feet.

Arching his head back, Dean cracked the last few pops from sleeping on warped stable floors. He had quickly adapted to this lifestyle, feeding and caring for the stables, drinking himself to a stupor, and then passing out with hay tickling his nose. It was a nicer exchange then street corners and bar stops, which Dean and Impala had frequently homed. Wasn't until one night when a gruff royal servant, a froth of brushed blonde hair and sparse stubble, eyed Dean one night and offered him a job in exchange of shelter in the stables. Happily accepting, Dean found the stables a wonderful alternative to being beaten dry in gutters and shuffling for shade from rains. All he had to do was tend to the animals, and now that the battalion had rushed out with the majority of horses there was only two; Marlene the goat, and Claire the fowl that had been too young to ride. Balthazar was lax as well, so he would occasionally smuggle Dean burned bread loafs and meat cuts for Impala. Dean was thankful, but wary, being raised by John Winchester had taught him to never completely trust anyone (except family of course) and Balthazar was nearly _too _kind. Offering him lodging and occasionally food, yes the man was snarky and had attained the hobby of criticizing Dean to the very bone… but all in all generous. It had Dean always second guessing his actions in the stables, sleeping with axe in tow.

Dean yawned, and ruffled through his fur skinned jackets to extract his prize, a flask. Tossing the dented back, he gulped a long drag of ale that burned his throat. Not a very _promising _start this morning, as he felt the case slosh, nearly empty. He noted to fill his tankard later, and ran a hand through his cropped hair whilst he heaved a bag of oats. Marlene bleeped incessantly, nosing Dean's ankles picking up Impala's job. Impala on the other hand had one ear trained to the ground, nose scouting the air. Normally the hunting dog was gentle, a quiet furry creature who enjoyed gnawing bone marrow and sleeping in the crook of Dean's arms. But sometimes her hunting instincts would spark she'd track meaningless measures, and bark at intruders. Now, her silver eyes (a color that would constantly shock people) were dashing around the stables, vivid as she stalked her prize. Dean cast a side look at his hunting dog, she hadn't shown such liveliness in a while. He grunted and dished out Marlene's breakfast, the goat humming with oats tracing her lips, and beckoned at the dog.

"Baby, don't you want some?" Due to malnutrition, Impala had grown an affinity to the oats that Claire and Marlene devoured. It was unusual for her to be so disinterested in food, usually skirting around his knees and lapping up Marlene's leftovers.

Impala ignored him though, and was now peeking from the gates of Marlene's compartment into Claire's. She whined, low and deep in her throat, and shuffled her feet in thistles. Something was riling her up, and it was more than the usual rat skittering. Curiosity (damn when was the last time he had felt that?) spiked in Dean, hushed murmurs arising above Marlene's happy bleeps. It was normal for Balthazar to not announce himself, stow away a drunken bum, and calm the startled animals. What _wasn't _normal was the clangs of armor, and shouts of "_INTRUDER"_ that followed.

Impala tilted her head back barking at the intrusion. But the uproar didn't cease, and in fact grew as the stable doors strained beneath whumps by royal guards. Dean, about to step out to inspect the commotion, and is nearly cut off by the gallops of Claire. The young mare young and recently enthusiastic to ride, jets off through the stable doors passenger clinging to her nape. Dean's view of the rider is restricted, spying only a navy shawl and quiver lacing the man's back.

Once Dean tucks a lip between his teeth, pondering _'Well I guess it's only the shit goat now…'_ a tremendous rattle of hinges catches his attention. A crunch of wood snaps in the air and the stable doors snap open. Dean catches Impala's snout to quiet her wail and glances at Marlene who hasn't noticed any turmoil through her chomping.

"We hear you led the prisoner from his cell."

"Well darling that could be put up to interpretation." Dean could recognize that curt burr anywhere, Balthazar. What the hell had the man gotten himself into this time? Charity that obviously may have gone a bit too far.

"You're under arrest by order of the queen." Rumbled the guard, and a scuffle of metal twangs breach the air. Dean drags Impala deeper into the stable compartment, lifting the wriggling mutt in his lap so the guards wouldn't know of a stow-away eavesdropping on an arrest. Dean had no fears of any of the royal guard shoving him in a cell for his Huntsman status, the whole kingdom was aware but hadn't cared as they watched Dean retire to the bars every night. A fucked up drunk was no threat to the National Guard, but a witness to escape may be. Impala wiggles some more and thrashes her head, never has Dean seen his old companion so distraught. But the risk of capture was enough for Dean to quell the animal, he burrowed in coarse hay.

Finally the parade of noises began to die down, Balthazar's muffled screams silenced and guards grumbles faded from the stables. Dean unlatched himself from his mutt who shot from the doors and began to examine the scene. The ex-Huntsman followed her in earnest, tip toeing in case a stray was listening. But Claire's stable proved empty, the only evidence of Balthazar's presence was a few light drops of blood. Nose buried in them Impala yipped some more and glared hard at her master.

"What? What was I supposed to do?"

She snorted and resumed patting the disheveled straw. Great, now even his _dog_ was mad at him.

"Bastard, now what do we do? Leave?"

Dean glanced at Marlene, as if expecting her to answer him, the goat bleeped through mouthfuls of oats. And now he's talking to goats too, great. He fetched his flask and took a long gulp.

* * *

Hot night air licks at the lapels of Dean's jacket, humidity pawed at his skin. Impala trots happily beside him, the limp more pronounced in her front right paw, and Dean notes to himself he needs to do something about that.

He needs to do….too many things.

He needs to finally accomplish what he came here for, his purpose for lagging around the kingdom gates, why he eyeballs stone walls with ire. Instead, he's walled up in another saloon, ale warming his throat and mutt sniffing his fingers. His constant stream of failures become washed away with each sip, making Dean believe that he may not be in fact be a total screw up. But of course… even alcohol couldn't render make believe success. Couldn't blur the vision of Sammy, still and pale as marble, lowered into dirt in an unmarked grave like some fucking commoner. Like he wasn't the only thing Dean had left in this world.

Well Dean still had some; he had Impala, his axe, his ale. Things that kept him from slicing his own throat, but mostly he had _revenge_ he had _fear. _Emotions that clogged his eyesight even more so than the liquor, but even that had begun to wilt. There was only so much passion could fuel when confronted with a barricade of mercenaries.

Sam Winchester had always been rebellious. Maybe it was because when Mary died he was only an infant, or because John had taken a particular focus on the boy, nonetheless Sam wormed under his family's grip since early childhood. Dean, on the other hand, strived beneath his father's orders. Daddy's little soldier, as he took to commands like a fish to water. And as they were growing up Dean never understood Sam's disobedience. Why the boy fought his father tooth-to-nail, loathing as they were shoveled to shooting, fighting, armory lessons. It didn't hinder Sam's hunting abilities, in fact some would argue that he excelled more than Dean. Sam was agile, quick wit, and as he approached man hood strong. Dean though never felt jealousy. He had practically raised the boy because of John's absence, seeing him endeavor filled his belly with pride.

The brothers would juggle between combat coaching for their platoon and scouring the Black Forest slaying beasts in their midst. Vampires, werewolves, shape-shifters, hell hounds, it became nearly routine for Dean to scrub off dried blood from his coats. With one eye glued to his baby brother, Dean found that hunting (whether royal armies or dragons) was something he exceeded in. There _was _nothing else. Nothing that lit his heart and purred in his bones so, nothing that would subdue the raw licking hole in his chest. Even human relationships fell to the wayside for Dean. Surely he was attentive to the girls in the Huntsman clan, for they were surely aware of Dean who had blossomed into a freckled rugged man. Boyhood had not lasted long, for he was gutting animals and lying with women at fourteen. And though Dean had enraptured many in the clan, charismatic and beautiful, he never successfully attached himself to anyone but family. Even then Sammy had slowly dwindled to be his only family, as John spent more and more time caught in the rifts of battle.

There were ones in Dean's life with perseverance. Jo, daughter of William Harvelle, had become a constant shadow to him. Challenging Dean in every which way possible, whether it was the quick slip of the tongue, or the swift battle technique she rivaled him with. It wasn't a secret she adored Dean though, never interested in padding along other soldiers. Only Dean. And though Jo was a great beauty, from golden skin and hair to her spitfire personality, Dean could not bring himself to courting her. In fact it caused Dean to push the maiden farther, dodging her at every turn. Sam Winchester was not dull to Dean's peculiar social habits, constantly expressing his concern.

The predicament worsened once Sam admitted to his brother that he was in love. Confession throwing Dean off guard, he had never seen Sam bat even an eye at any of the maidens of the clan. Younger Winchester always buried within books, brain brimming with pointless information. Usually it was Dean with an arm loped around a dame, and Sam rolling his eyes returning to the library. But even Sammy became enchanted, and the charm was named Jess. Combative, intelligent, and equally striking, Sam came like a moth to the flame. At first Dean was delighted little brother was finally at peace. Grins plastered to his face and eyes brilliant with love. This was until he learned _why _Dean had never spotted this perky blonde creature.

Jess did not live in the clan. In fact she was three villages away. The lovers had encountered each other through the Black Forest, Jess lost in its vast inhabitants and Sam tracking his newest hunt. After inadvertently rescuing one another from a wendigo, cupid's arrow had already struck. For months the two would meander their ways to each other in the dark. Despite Jess's protest, Sam kept their relationship a secret. He feared his brother's reaction of the possibility of Sam leaving, well aware how devoted the brothers were. In fact, Sam felt reluctance when it came to deserting his brother, a man who had raised him singlehandedly. But even Dean couldn't detract Sam from the gears of love, his heart ached without Jess and he felt no greater pain. The night Sam declared his departure from the clan for Jess and retirement from hunting, was their last conversation. Dean had screamed until his throat was rubbed raw, Sam and him nose to nose, lit fire in their blood. Hateful lies spilled from Dean's tongue, and Sam retaliated tenfold. They raced off into battle with horses snapping at one another, not a single word exchanged.

Dean hadn't even acquired a friend since he was eight years old. Sam had become not only his duty but anchor.

And he let some black eyed bitch thrust a blade into his baby brother.

Ruby had been the target of Dean's inflictions the moment after Sam's last breath. Immediately he had charged the laughing demon, but was thwarted by his father who grabbed his collar and dragged him through carnage. Inhuman wails escaped Dean's lips, and he could barely feel his limbs any longer. His body grew taut with grief, muscles cramped so tight not even a tear escaped him. For weeks he lazed around clan, never greeting others and hardly leaving their home. The fervor for hunting burst inside of him, never before had he wanted to tear skin so badly. Dean sought out hunts, one after another, hardly caring if his life was on the line. Arriving in the early hours of dawn, drenched in blood, a hand curled around his axe.

Within six months he left. Sam was everywhere in that camp, breathed in the walls of their home, laughed in the cobbled streets. Dean couldn't go anywhere without spotting a mop of hair and hazel eyes. That one throb in his chest diffused to every inch of him, pain seethed through his skin and teeth. Not a thought would placate Dean's desire to cut the neck of the pretty mousy girl, wielding her own machete against the bitch. So a night came where Dean packed the majority of his belongings, pocketed gold from his father, and headed towards the kingdom, Impala nipping at his heels.

But Dean was way over his head. The first night he barreled at the city walls, met with a squad of soldiers who did nothing but beat Dean into asphalt. Ruby rode among them, her eyes glinting and she practically squealed with joy. Watching the ex-Huntsman writhe in the streets gave them more entertainment than slicing his throat. So they let him live. The bastards made him keep going.

Dean devised more plans for ambush, but all began to sponge away with the drink. He was becoming a regular of all the hotspots, the men calling his names and inviting him to cards. Where he discovered another hidden talent among hunting, cheating. Cards fastened up his sleeves, Impala nosing away discarded ones, and the two became a team of hustlers. Money flowed, but just enough to quench Dean's thirst. Something that had clawed and grown as the months dragged by, until Dean barely had enough for that anymore. All thoughts of annihilation drained into Dean's dreams, where Ruby's head on a platter nearly became memory. A lot of nights Dean could down his palette and forget his purpose, but some nights (like tonight) even the beer fell flat on his tongue. What was he doing?

Entering the bar, Dean noticed a few heads perk. It wasn't unusual for Dean to enter this inn, nor was he hard to miss with giant Impala panting at his side. Startled waitresses clammed up to him and offered him ale, he accepted graciously, and steered their eyes downward. Foam easing into his lips, Dean eyed a card table with some familiar faces. He gave a toothy grin to them and seated himself within their company.

The few rats here were just as deadbeat as Dean. Leather worn clothes adorn their backs, heat had tanned their skin to rawhide, beards ate their faces, and they only had about a pocketful of gold. Dean was one of them, blending in marvelously if it wasn't for his age. His own beard descended down his neck, and long hair was twirled into a tight bun. But though he did look like them, the table did not trust Dean. Not only did he owe them a hefty wad of cash, but had gathered a few scars from the man's axe.

Most people would be uncomfortable under the weight of glares. Instead Dean pops one of his neighbors boiled potatoes in his mouth.

"Fellas mind if I join your game?" Dean slurs, already feeling warm from alcohol. Not only has his flask occupied him the majority of the day, but he had visited three other taverns earlier. Finally his limbs have loosened and blood thrum in his veins, he's on top of the world. Not a single shaggy brunette to distract him.

"Winchester, you already owe me forty pieces." A man glowers, a smug looking hawk resting in the slope of his shoulder. His companion arises, smaller but robust enough to shadow Dean.

"Forty! More like seventy!"

The table begins to reach a consensus as the rumbles from the drunks crescendo. Dean though is unfazed, in fact he cups his chin and smirks. Beforehand he had shoveled prize cards upwards his sleeves, he was confident in that his winnings would surpass even his debt. He waves a hand nonchalantly towards the men, the gape at Dean like he was a monkey that joined their table.

"Please gentlemen. I will win it all, pay you back and more."

Murmurs arise and Dean feels Impala whine anxiously and lap at his fingers.

"Wouldn't you rather win your money back than beat a man who has none to give?"

So Dean plays, and as promised, improves dramatically. Hand after hand he jacks the pot, watching as his table mates grumble unhappily at his winnings. Impala settles herself at Dean's feet, snoring lightly until Dean would nudge the mutt to discard of an unworthy card. And as the night progresses Dean routinely orders drinks. He becomes so drunk his eyes droop; body slouches, and becomes incredibly grabby with the waitresses. Within a few hours, Dean is fumbling with his hand and belching in the men's faces. Soon Dean has nearly 100 gold pieces, he's giggling stupidly and as he reaches for the pot a card slips from his sleeve.

"What is this shit!" A man accuses, the card slid between his middle and index finger. Dean gives a gummed wobbly smile, shrugs his shoulders and taps Impala from sleep.

"Erm… whoops?"

Mayhem grips the saloon as two men dive towards Dean. Drunk and frustrated as Dean squirms from their grasp and blocks their fists. A horde of them begin to reach for Dean's throat, and Impala snaps viciously at their fingers. All the while a grin is curled up in Dean's cheeks, he ducks and dodges and swings at his perpetrators. Dean knows this is stupid, downright suicide, but he can't help but chortle while a jug smacks into his left cheek. Impala rears up and scrambles up on the shoulder blades of the offender, grilling her jaws into thick skin. A howl of pain interludes the commotion and the brute grabs Dean's mutt by the neck, about to drive a knife through her nape. The low whine rips Dean from his chuckles, his dog about to be sliced up in front of him Dean surges forward. Looping his arms, he bundles the man into a head lock, Impala popping in and out of his knees.

Havoc ensues and the brawl is yanked outside by the manager wielding a crossbow. Dean finds himself facing about seven men, his hands drawn, hunting dog snarling between his legs. They fight valiantly, but as valiant as a drunken man could, eventually he falls. Right into a slick of mud, blood smearing alongside dirtied water that bubbled in his nose.

And when he thinks that nothing could be worse than this, lying face down in a ditch with a gang of men taking turns swinging at him. Maybe his only defender an old hunting dog, one that could barely hunt anymore.

Until he hears an _all _too familiar voice tsk him in his ear. "Oh Dean, Dean, Dean, you poor darling." Dean glances up, and what do you know black eyed skank. "I want to have a little chat."

* * *

Well it's about damn time.

Honestly, Dean was getting concerned for the kingdom. It was a miracle he had lived this long in the first place. He was an ex-Huntsman, with vital knowledge on the enemy camps, stellar combat and artillery skills, and a drinking problem. If they hadn't done something about him parading through the kingdom soon he'd be lost.

So here he was, wrists interlocked by steel, staring up at the bitch that cut open his baby brother. Ruby is beaming, her face nearly split open by her grin. She is donned in armor, a breastplate brushes her chin and sword clasped in chained gloves. No question about it, Ruby has all power, all the inner workings of a general. Dean can see why the men sway in battle once she arrives. It doesn't diminish the boiling hate in his heart.

"Dean, sweetie, now you know just as well as I do that you shouldn't be hanging out in a place like that."

Dean presses his lips together, and huffs a sigh.

"What can I say baby? I'm always messing around with the wrong crowd."

At that Ruby sniggers, she kneels to Dean's level and the guards behind her flinch. They are prepared for an attack aware of Dean's tendencies for escape. And they should be, damn it, he wasn't a lame dog. He was still Dean motherfucking Winchester, still bad as they come. Ruby outstretches a hand and slides her palm across Dean's gnarled beard. The man can't help but shiver, Ruby's treachery goose prickling his skin.

"Alright hun let's cut to the chase." She pinches his face between her thumb and index fingers. "I want to make a deal."

A throaty whimper ruptures the air and Dean swivels his eyes towards Impala. Muzzled, the canine is fidgeting uneasily in an iron cage feet buckled to the floor. She is spooked completely, it had been too long since Dean seen her so riled. A rock plummets in his stomach, he hadn't felt so guilty in such a long time and it was all over his dog's safety.

"I don't make deals with scum." Dean spits, eyes trained to Impala. Ruby spies his wanderings and shakes the man's face. Suddenly she's close, closer than he'd like, so close she has a tongue tentatively poking at his earlobe and hair in a vice grip. No amount of wobbling deters Ruby, her breath is warm and Dean curses at how his body relaxes. Impulses from sex mingling with fear.

"Would you say that if I could bring little bro back?"

Frozen, glued to the floor and wide-eyed like a stunned doe, Dean has to force himself to breathe. Ruby hasn't left his cheek, even wrings her metallic glove around his collarbone. She expects a reply, but Dean is shattered. The mere mentioning of Sam would ascend Dean into rage, the confrontation of his killer made him mad. But the possibility of his resurrection?

Dean has nothing, zilch.

Quivering, his voice escapes, a husk tracing Ruby's cheekbones.

"What…what did you just say to me?" Ruby extracts, but places a pad (she had taken off her glove at some point, how is Dean unable to notice these things!) to his nose. Taunting him surely, but it's working Dean's mind is a blank slate.

"See this morning we had a little mishap," Ruby slides her thumb to the bags that billow from Dean's eyes. "A prisoner was let loose. He too liege in the Black Forest and none of Lilith's kingdom know how to peruse such a place…."

The thumb works down, past his cheeks, through his chin wound, and pokes violently in the dip of his throat.

"Except you."

Dean growls, he can hear Impala's returning snarl, and wrenches from Ruby's grip. Her eyes widen a bit but she returns to the safety of impish teeth.

"And what makes you think I'm going to believe Sam's killer!"

Ruby laughs, she rolls the balls of her feet so she stands. Impala shrieks once Ruby tips her sword into Dean's hollow neck.

"You don't have to believe me. But do not underestimate the queen's power."

Then Dean is manhandled by two guards to his feet, a blindfold is taped tight across his eyes and they upchuck him from the ground. He battles their hands, waggling his body, but they are stronger than before. All he can hear is the continuous yips from his mutt and the bitch speak.

"Besides who said you had a choice?"

* * *

This 'capture' probably goes under, most-annoying-trip-ever-oh-my-god-are-these-people-serious category for Dean at the moment.

Ruby had ordered a small squadron of ten men, including herself, for Dean to escort through the Black Forest. The majority of the men are burly, dense with layers of armor, and guided horseback. Even though Dean _specifically_ informed Ruby that LARGE and HEAVY didn't suit the forest and even the most resilient horses found the wild tiring. This was why when Dean had hunted in the forest he had donned only his casual attire and was only ever accompanied with Impala.

But of course no one listens, so here is Dean trying to tug two horses from soupy mud trails.

It takes nearly an hour for the horses to breach, and even then the regiment still tries to encourage the three remainders to cross the banks. All of Dean's strength is absorbed into not decapitating all his fellows, he considers it briefly before he remembers Sammy. With what little decency the group has they trudge from sludge, Dean with Impala hunkered on his back, they take their first steps in the forest.

Dean is surprised how easily he niches into the Black Forest. Hunting abilities trigger once the snake branches slither from their nests and whispers of the trees ignite. Impala too slips into hunting; she scouts the areas and lathers the forest floor with her nose. Tracking had been Impala's specialty and with the scent of their objective in tow she divides the woodland searching.

The brigade is startled at each and every turn of the wood. Constantly Dean shouts phrases to them, "Don't touch that" and "If you eat that I swear to god…" or even "When you see a giant fire-breathing scorpion DON'T PET IT!". But surprisingly they make good progress, within a few hours they are deeper than Dean had anticipated. It isn't good enough though, still Impala hasn't caught the aim's scent and Dean hasn't spotted a single mark by human hands. Ruby begins to grow impatient, tapping her fingers against the her riding crop and barking at Dean about the hold up. Sweat drips from the ex-Huntsman brow and he chants quietly "For Sammy, this is for Sammy." over and over until his tongue grows numb.

It is once the crew begins to moan, Dean nearly groaning with them, that they spy the horse.

Frustrated, Impala yowls darting up to the mare and sniffs at her hinds. Muck is skated up to the horse's thighs, obviously she had also been hauled through swampy waters. What puzzled Dean was this, why go through all the trouble of towing an animal only to leave it snarled to a tree? In fact, why leave Claire at all? If anything the horse would provide more distance between the mark and his chasers. So why…?

An arrow whizzes from the canopy, striking the flesh of a man's throat. The victim sputters, blood leaking through his tongue and lips, and drops from his horse. Well, maybe that was why.

A rainfall of arrows dive from the tree tops, and the men scamper like rats. Ruby raises her shield and rides off in the opposite direction, beating off determined arrowheads. Claire neighs, raising her front legs to scare off Impala. The mutt yelps, she has her nose prodding the moist air and is shooting towards her target. Miraculously, Dean maneuvers arrows easily, considering his men were falling like flies. He spots his dog sprinting, the arrows following her path, and so Dean follows.

Impala does not chase for long, she skids to a stop and hunches her body towards a tree bank. Her master is panting heavily (withdrawing from hunting had weakened him especially with the drink) but wavering his axe towards the skies.

"Show yourself!"

The skirmishes stop, Impala stagnant, the rustles of leaves gone. Dean scowls and points his axe at a lofty tree branch, a balanced silhouette. Both he and the man have opposing weapons at each other, Dean's axe poised for a good toss, longbow pointed.

"Come on! I don't have all day!"

The man peeks forward, revealing only shadows and sharp blue eyes.

* * *

**Authors Notes: **Ok before someone puts it out there I AM REALLY SORRY I KILLED SAMMY. I didn't want to, honestly. I love Sam Winchester just as much as Dean. The brother unit is my all-time favorite part about this show! But I needed Dean to be grieving and I didn't want to cheapen it with a made up thing about some girl. I knew Sam would be the only thing to drive him to madness so I had to put Sammy under the blade. I'm sorry guys! Please don't think I dislike Sam, trust me I love that sideburned fool with all my heart. Shipping Destiel does not mean hating Sammy. And who knows? This is Supernatural people come back all the time and maybe that'll happen here? No promises though!

Anyway guys thanks for the support. Hope you liked this chapter better than the last one.


	4. Hellhounds Should Be On Leashes

**Name: **Crowned

**Summary:** AU. Destiel. Long ago a queen wished for a child with skin glossy as snow, hair jet as a raven's wing, and lips redder than blood. This child is borne, his story breeds grief, betrayal, honor and love. What will become of him? (Loosely based on Snow White and the Huntsmen)

**Author's Notes: **Oh my god guys I am SO SORRY. Honestly so much stuff has happened I was at my sisters and then I was sick and then I went to Chicago (I'm still here) and writing got lost along the way. Plus I was stuck, staring at my computer being like OH MY GOD FIC WRITE YOURSELF. But finally I did it and I will no longer wait this long for an update! Trust me! I'm giving myself a week rule where I write the next chapter in at least a week or …. I will thump myself on the head? You guys have been great though, all of your reviews, follows, favs, etc. are so kind. I was even recced on tumblr and I was practically giddy. I'm glad people are reading this and finding it enjoyable, it is so much fun to write it. Please forgive me guys. Never again!

**Chapter: **Hellhounds Should Be On Leashes

**Chapter Summary: **Two men meet, all hell breaks loose.

* * *

This may be the wrong representation… but the stranger seems nearly _bird-like. _

Hunched, the man is squat on a tree branch legs braced against bark with impeccable balance. Hood hoisted past his forehead and curving inward like the swell of a hawk's beak, face nearly undistinguishable. Beneath the shawl revealed only hard lined lips and summer blue eyes, distraught and darting around. In his grip lay that accursed bow, a polished shimmery thing that arched perfectly in the objective hand, an arrow lodged aimed at Dean.

And Dean should be running now.

Dean should have his ass hauled at that tree now.

Two hands throttled around this guy.

So why hasn't he done any of these things yet?

There is something very…unnerving about this guy. Poised so elegantly as if he belonged in the spine of the tree. Longbow he had palmed so quietly, Dean didn't even know until an arrowhead was launched. This man was unreal, a quiet deceiving monster. With eyes so blue they burned aflame. Dean couldn't help but feel frozen, hands clenched around his axe but unable to actually swing. Both had their eyes interlocked, and Dean never felt such déjà vu. Such blue shocked eyes were unfamiliar but the burn they left behind…felt like a lost memory.

Thankfully Impala yaps at Dean, drawing him from his thoughts and regaining his composure. Howling, she has two paws vertical to the trees length screaming at Dean for assistance. The man does not move an inch, only glancing at the dog but firing his eyes right into Dean's. Seconds pass and they feel like hours, all the while Impala is squirming for Dean's attention. Claire whickers gently and toes her way closer to the three, magnetized by her captor. Just when Dean unhinges his jaw, desperate to break such thick air, an arrow whizzes by him nearly grazing his cheek.

Thankfully the dart does not pin Dean, but barrels to the ground next to him. Stunned for a few moments, Dean feels his heart flare in pace. All of a sudden he tenses, whirling his axe up to his cheek and shouting obscenities to his eagle eyed opponent. This just encourages Impala to draw up an even brassier bark and she continues to limp around the edged roots fitfully. Instead of gearing to escape, the man dips into his quiver (eyes never leaving Dean's) and feathers another projectile. His movements are so slow, he is practically taunting Dean. But he can't find it within himself still to bury his axe.

"You must be a piss-poor shot to miss when your target is ten feet away from you." Dean growls, infuriated that he is still here just _talking _to the assailant. It's a miracle there aren't 20 arrows breaking his flesh. Maybe this was nothing but a game to him, but goddamnit Dean was _letting _him win. How could he let this escalade so far? The Dean from a year ago would have had this man bound, gagged, and pleading for his life before his fingers even chuffed his quiver. Hell, he'd be earthbound before Impala could even spot him.

"I wasn't aiming for _you."_ Bird dude then squints one eye and gently gestures with his bow next to Dean.

Near the scuff of his boot lay the arrow, to the naked eye it seemed normal. Burrowed nose in the myriad of dirt and dried leaves, but then the discharge began from beneath the head. A deep-set purple begins to bubble, a thick warm puddle soiling Dean's soles. Snarling in disgust, Dean raised his boot to kick at the monstrosity the arrow has pierced to hear it _growl. _Dean cups his mouth and snorts, yep, there is no doubt about it this is a pedigree hellhound. This information is enough for Dean to turn his axe around on him.

Of course, fucking hellhounds, now Dean knew he really was shit. Huntsmen Dean Winchester would have had the beast in a headlock the second it prowled near, neck snapped in thirty seconds. No wonder Impala had been skirting around the tree trunk and rabid at Dean, she was warning him of such a blatant attack. If his objective had pended any longer, Dean would probably be chewed to ribbons by hellhound teeth. How had he grown so …_domestic? _Not even able to sense when a hound is nearing in? Had the drink and grief numbed his senses so drastically? Before Dean had thought the Black Forest to be his livelihood, a second home. Now it seemed unforgiving, ready to swallow him up.

Giving the creature a full forced snap of his boot, the hellhound whimpers as it's launched five feet away. Leaves scramble around its resting place, until the scuffles rest. Dean scans the area in search of others, usually there was never just one hellhound, and usually when one showed up it meant _he _was around.

But it seems the forest is for the most part quiet. With the exception of Impala's whines and his band's exasperations, it is indeed silent. No hellhound gruff, or skirmishing leaves, the creatures of the forest wary. Though this doesn't mean much, there is bound to be more and as the sun dims into evening the nature of the forest morphs. In the day it pauses, licking its chops and waiting grievously. And once the night ensues, it springs alive.

Dean needed to get this show on the road.

"Who the hell are you…?" Dean is exasperated, he upchucks his axe to once again face his offender. "Have you been in the Black Forest before? Because I didn't even sense that hellhound!"

Though the man keeps his arrow trained to Dean's forehead, he loosens his hold. The bow rests calm in his hands, the tautness coiled in his knuckles dissipating. Left eye un-scrunches and swivels back to the purple pool of goo and Dean, he slips into a mask of confusion.

"…Are you telling me that you don't see it?"

"_See!_ See what the hellhound!" Dean accuses his shoulders tight with annoyance. It was common knowledge with Huntsmen (even young apprentices) that hellhounds wore glamour to keep them invisible to human eyes. No one knew of their true form, in fact the only reason why they were referred to as hounds was because of the noises they emitted. For all Dean knew they could be furry demon hell-bound badgers for Christ sake.

With that, the assailant stiffens and constricts the arrow against its string. Eyes half closed with suspicion. "You mean to tell me you can't see the four foot bloody wolf that stood next to you?"

At a loss for words, Dean gapes his eyes widen comically. Wait….this man could see a hellhound? With his own two fucking eyes witness the physical beings of a HELLHOUND! There was no way that was possible. Nada. In fact, Dean wasn't even too sure that they had physical manifestations. That they may just be spirits with vigorous vengeance and trickery, how could a simple criminal be able to spot them?

Well… if he was actually hum-

"Hmm, that is peculiar isn't it?"

Like clockwork, arrives Crowley. And all of Dean's frustrations (funneled from his failure of hunting and this man's insistence on seeing things that DON'T EXIST) are instantly channeled to the demon. Crowley sits upon the same branch bird dude does, but instead of rigid and armed, he lazily kicks his feet. Butt planted he gives a toothy grin to the startled man beside him, who does not redirect his arrow but grits his teeth. Man they were in deep shit now. Whenever Crowley appeared it could mean one of two things, 1) he was offering the same deal to Dean he had since last year, or 2) there was something he wanted by force. And since Dean hadn't laid eyes on Crowley in months he sincerely doubted it was number one. Meaning Dean had to do something _now._

With one quick movement Dean extracts a roped lasso from his saddle bag, the agility of a hunter stretches back into his bones as it loops around his target's feet. The man is hoisted from the branch and torn to the ground, he yelps attempting to shoot Dean. The arrows fall to the wayside along with their master longbow, and Dean hauls the worming escapee into a backwards lock. Bird dude squawks, restlessly kicking against Dean with twitching fingers for his bow. Somehow, Dean wrestles the man to fit into his body with his axe tracing the dip of his throat. Finally his captive freezes, eyes glued to Dean's fingers fitted to the handle. And then Dean can't help it, he grins like a madman, yes he had been duped but it didn't take too long for rusted instincts to trigger back to life.

Curiosity usurps him then, the hood (though ruffled) still hangs past the runaway's face, so with a free hand Dean yanks it off. Beneath the navy was a head of disheveled black tangles, hair so fluffed it seemed spy in Dean's fingers. Alarmed, bird dude steers his gaze upwards and Dean is once again stunned by vivid almond shaped eyes. The only words that chimed in Dean's mind was "beautiful", Dean had spotted countless gorgeous dames and even a few dashing mates, but never one so captivating. It was probably for good measure that the assailant had been masked, or Dean may have gone limp at the sight. Sharp features jutted cheekbones framing doe eyes and rose lips rimmed with prisoner scuffle. Soft pink tongue parted his mouth, lapping at the bottom. Suddenly all of Dean's mouth had gone dry.

Crowley looks upon the two with a muse of delight, he leans back humming. It is enough for Dean to tear himself from the man he so _wonderfully _intertwined his horny self with. Spying Crowley, smug as ever, wrapped in expensive silks and chugging from a flask of wine. Ruby red lines his lips and he smacks them happily, his blasted purring continues. All the while Impala (who had quelled once Dean acquired his captive) was arched her spiked fur raking the air as she backs away from the base of the tree. The mutt yips, bounding to Dean's side face twisted up in anger. Around the root of the tree a buzz of snarls begin to chorus. Dean feels his imprisoned fidget uncomfortably, eyes no longer glued to Dean but to present company. And suddenly Dean does not envy this man ability to catch face with such creatures, their rumbles enough to raise gooseflesh. Frustrated, Impala struts forward and snaps and is greeted by a ferocious bark. It would be humorous, watching Impala leap and worm between Dean's knees, if they weren't faced with hellhounds. What a situation Dean had gotten himself into this time. The fleeting thought of Sammy, bitch faced and huffing, in this situation nearly causes Dean to grin.

"Mind calling off your dogs Crowley?" Dean mumbles, belting the runaway closer to him as he feels the man jerk his fingers towards Dean's dagger. Not so fast. Crowley lazily opens one eye, cupping his wine to his cheek he leans forward with one elbow bent on a knee. The bemused twinkle never leaving red eyes, a color deeper than the wine that lined his tongue.

"They don't bite," Crowley's voice dances and he flexes his fingers towards the hellhounds. "Well…unless I tell them to."

"What are you doing here anyway? Offering your _deal? _Because you know what the answer is."

Crowley and Dean were… well acquainted. Dean had spotted the demon ever since he was a child, badgering his father whilst they were hunting about deals. Normally Crowley would poof from branch to branch, pop from beneath a boulder, peer from bushes, and John would navigate past the demon. Never did the demon change outwardly, still clean cut silk, sloshing ruby drink, and a curling grin. He probably contributed to some of Dean's first nightmares, blazing blood rimmed eyes flashing from the darkness. Never-ending promises staining his lips. Thankfully John, though grief-stricken enough to lead eight year olds in jeopardy, wasn't clouded enough to partake in Crowley's deals. Nothing good ever comes from dealing with demons. These words imprinted so deeply into Dean's subconscious even the anguish of Sammy's death did not have him comply. Crowley had tracked Dean though, and quickly. With each hunt it seemed the buggered Demon was trailblazing. Always up to being his arrogant pretentious self. Dean knew better though, because everyone knew that once you made a deal with a demon…

Someone died.

Every time.

"Oh I gave that up _ages_ ago love." Crowley smirks. "Actually I just picked up this lustrous scent and wanted to know what the fuss was about."

Dean wrinkled his nose, somehow flustered at the notion of Crowley sniffing his captive. Woah. Not his. Just a captive… The man twisted up in Dean's arms showed distaste too, Dean could feel his body grow stationary.

"But then I heard this one could see my lovely doggies…." Crowley peeked from behind the glass, transfigured wine filling it to the brim, teeth popped from behind his gums. Suddenly Crowley resembled more of a shark than anything human. "I thought that was incredibly interesting."

"He didn't see shit." Dean spat, whacking a near hellhound with his heel. Whining the monster doesn't retreat, in fact approaches brazen. A cacophony of yips and snarls mediate the hot air and Dean squeezes the runaway. Impala bravely slams her tail into an unsuspecting beast, but the dog retaliates munching into her hind. Fucking dick dogs and their lack of physicality, Dean thrusts another boot.

"Now, now, Dean no one likes liars." Crowley sing-songs, howls intercede his words. Is it just Dean or have these mutts multiplied…? "And look you brought friends."

"Huh?" Sure enough Ruby finally reveals herself, flanked by two bleeding guardsmen. The imbeciles are crisscrossed by arrowheads, they wield their weapons like a child its rattle. Ruby on the other hand in unscathed for the exception of a sweeping cut that banks beneath her left eyelid. Blood oozes from the wound, as if her tears are droplets of blood. Dean wouldn't be surprised if this was true, the hell spawn. Ruby looks beyond pissed, muddied armor and a scowl burned in her expression. It was a bit daunting to see the demon, normally cocky mischief glinting in her eye, tense and so determined. And suddenly Dean realizes, he is very much screwed. On the one side, there is Crowley usually harmless more like a fly buzzing in Dean's ear than anything. But now so spellbound by the prisoner, the desire he possesses now infinitely more deadly with hellhounds trailing him. Ruby was another story; she outnumbered Dean with her men and outranked him in combat. If it wasn't the brute strength of her allies it would be the slash of her sword that would subdue him. And now the two demons were eyeing on another with disdain, both ravenous for the wiry body as they awaited their opponents first move, the calm before the storm. Yes this would be simple if Dean would just release the captive, haul his dog, collect his reward, and leave this quiet mystery to rest.

It would be best after all.

But Dean finds himself immobile, axe still grazing said prisoner's jaw, it seems his body hasn't caught up to his brain just quite yet. Crowley perks to Ruby, greeting her with a snag toothed grin. Snorting, Ruby clenches the hilt of her sword flicking her wrist to point it at the dealer.

"Long time no see Crowley." Rasp clouds her tongue; Dean wonders how much the raid wounded her as he notes her strung arm. Bird dude twists in his grip, Dean can feel his heartbeat quicken at the sound of Ruby's voice.

"I could say the same for you." Crowley purrs and laps his wine discolored lips. "Is this present for you?"

Crowley motions to the knitted pair and Dean feels Ruby's stone eyes upon him. Steely, they bleed black. Fear is something Dean hasn't missed in all those months of drowning himself, so once Ruby hardens at him he aches for his flask. Once again bird dude squeaks and writhes in Dean's grasp, even though his axe nearly tips into his skin, Dean catches a murmur but can't quite decipher it. This would be a good time to toss the bastard to the demon, forget this whole thing happened. Con the bitch for his brother's life and guzzle down drink. Let the demons tear into each other over this one, Dean hovering above the crossfire. Impala whines low in her throat, as if to encourage Dean to _get a move on_. But what does he do? Something incredibly stupid.

He asks questions.

"Why are you so desperate for this guy anyway?" And the words are out before Dean can bite them back. "I mean it took me…what…five minutes to get my hands on him? And you're telling me he escaped the whole _prisoner guard?"_ Though it is a little rewarding to see Ruby frown like a child refused of sweets, Ruby's sword facing him did settle his spirits. How the fuck does he always end up doing this? Dean Winchester, nosiest Huntsman in all existence.

"I'm also very intrigued on this matter." Crowley chimes and his dog's breath lick at Dean's ankles. Ruby presents the crossroads demon with a glare, she then signals her goons forward. With Ruby facing him, Crowley giggling at his rear, and two burly guardsmen at his sides, Dean now knows the definition of cornered. He has no free hands, a dog with a pronounced limp, and only rustic weapons at his disposal. What a wonderful situation.

"It's none of your concern _Winchester._ Just hand over the prisoner and we can discuss your deal."

"_Please,"_ A voice buzzed on the curve of Dean's axe, gravely tone lingering in his ears. The runaway was whispering, breath warm on his fingers, just enough for Dean's ears only. Remaining still as stone, Dean made no inclination that he heard a voice. "_I implore you to release me. The Huntsmen will pay you greatly." _The proper English nearly made Dean smirk, this guy had obviously been locked away for a while. Speaking like a grandfather, especially when his life was in jeopardy. Who was he though? A man that commits treason, singlehandedly deceives the prisoner guard, can spot a hellhound, but falls beneath the weight of Dean's lasso? And why would he be valuable to the Huntsmen? There was more to this. Something sealed under the commands of Lilith that finally unhinged, something of value.

Something that (by the looks of her irked expression) would put Ruby's head on a silver platter.

Suddenly the idea of aiding a conman doesn't seem so bad after all. The image of Ruby crouched and pleading for her life appealed to Dean. Watching the black eyed skank wail as her punishment is delivered. The thought made Dean's eyes light up with glee. But….but Sammy…

"_She is a demon. Please I beg-"_

"Well Dean I'm waiting!" Thundering, Ruby's eyes locked onto Dean demanding his attention. Impala shifted uncomfortably as the demon's voice boomed through thick canopies. Even Dean felt nervous at her scrutiny, brawn men brandished weapons directed towards him. Of course though instead of doing the intelligent thing and returning the prisoner, his mouth runs at a million miles an hour.

"How about we discuss this _deal_?" The way Ruby's face sours returns his whimsical confidence. "How can I trust you to uphold it?"

"You can't." Crowley announces, Dean swerves his head to spot the demon cross legged and beaming. "In fact the only person who has power to bring back the dead is me."

Ruby practically roars, never had Dean anticipated such guttural noises to escape the pixie sized demon. Nonetheless she does not cease, her bellows surge in volume, and a pocket sized dagger pinched between her forefingers spirals at Crowley. Instead of approaching it's mark, the knife hovers between the crossroads demon's eyes. Dean has spied this witchcraft before, after witnessing the hundreds of assaults he himself attempted on Crowley. Never did the demon fail to blatantly cause his arrowheads to splinter, sword to bend limp, and axe to twist backwards, there was a reason Crowley was at home in the Black Forest. His trickery leveled (and may actually succeed) the forest's guiles. This performance caused Ruby to hiss, Crowley paid no heed causing her elegant dagger to flip midair.

"Do NOT doubt the queen's power so!" Ruby hollered, agitated and red faced. Dean nearly giggled, like two kittens quarreling in a playpen. Bird dude began to huff impatiently, no longer squirming but obviously eager for Dean's next move. Without hesitation Dean clamped his free hand to the prisoner's plush lips, he could feel the sheen of sweat and panicked intake of breath. He couldn't risk having Ruby hear the two chat, but the shivers that erupted from the man's skin did bring the ex-Huntsman guilt. There was no doubt in Dean's mind that he wished for the safety of the stranger. As abnormal as that was, there was a certain allure that Dean couldn't deny. But could he afford that? With something as precious as his baby brother's life? With the two bantering demons Dean couldn't make heads or tails of the situation, should he trust the killer of his brother in desperation? Despite his dad's insistent warnings, Dean was still dealing with a demon even if it wasn't Crowley and worse she was the one who cut into Sam. But he _had_ heard of Lilith's devilry, bewitchments that sapped girls of youth, and cascaded whole armies into sawdust. Could life assemble in her fingers as well? The thought of Sammy, floppy brown hair musing over his pages wrenched painfully in Dean's heart. He yearned for his brother to come home.

But then Dean could see it, see the disapproval Sam would convey at Dean's situation. Let a man perish beneath Lilith for the benefit of a dead man? _I told you to leave me here. _The last words Sam spoke, after blood bubbled on his tongue. John Winchester had to peel Dean from the bleeding body anyways.

Dean wouldn't give up, but… this wasn't the way.

Besides…he kind of liked the dude.

Squabbling, the demons were so enraptured with each other that Dean had the opportunity press his mouth near the assailant's ear. Tremors escaladed as Dean lingered, not the reaction he expected from a conman but it didn't mend the cocky smile that attributed from it. Dean whispered, hoarse and authoritative.

"Okay, so listen this is what we are going to do." Dean released some pressure from his axe, sparing a look at pale throat. "If I return you to the Huntsman council…. Will I be rewarded?

Bird dude nodded frantically, muffled assurances beneath Dean's knuckles. Hey, if he wasn't going to finally retrieve Sammy from the ground he might as well pay back that debt and advance on some whiskey. Plus, there was no way this prisoner could meander his way through the forest without Dean's help. Sure, he was pretty handy with a longbow and nimbler than the brutes Dean traveled with but agility could only account for so much.

"Right," Dean shifted his grip, thumbing down the man's lip until his mouth was free and the axe withdrawn from his clavicle. Ever insightful Impala noticed her master's body language, began to unravel herself from his legs and brace herself for attack. She had been bred to read the semantics of war, perceiving future offensives was second nature. "Then I am going to let you go, and we are going to wipe these bastards out of my sight. And then _run_, do you understand me? _Scram." _

"You won't get two steps without me. So don't even think of running tail."

Dean then takes a leap of faith and lets go.

It takes about three seconds for the duo demons to comprehend the situation. In those three seconds Dean and the runaway are back to back. Crowley (who is quicker than the commander) orders his dogs forwards, yapps and barks multiply as the hellhounds bound to the captive. Somehow, bird dude has scooped his longbow and quiver back into its rightful hands without canine interference. He slings arrows efficiently, Dean can hear them whistle and strike mutts with ease. Speaking of mutts, Impala has fastened herself to the spine of one of Ruby's goons. She has disarmed him, yanked his sword by chewing into his wrist and then proceeded into biting at the tendons of his neck. A glow of pride churns in Dean, Impala is well trained and proficient within minutes the man has collapsed blood ridden.

Axe begotten in the second goon's gullet, Dean heaves his weapon from flesh towards Ruby. The demon hasn't wasted a moment; her sword is lightweight enough to be handled with one arm, she surges forward. This being an leverage on the ex-Huntsman, whose preferred armament a brutal heavy thing. Dean had difficult blocking her bouts, for she had practically no recoil, slicing faster with each stroke. Thankfully his footwork was up to par, scuffling around the demon so she didn't think about plundering his ally (the yelps of dogs beginning to fade) and so the blade didn't near him also. But Dean was out of practice, the axe used to be his second arm another home away from home, but now it felt weighty and he barely surpassed rookie status. Soon Ruby had him pinned with one deft kick at the inside of his knees, Dean was sprawled beneath her, his axe victim to her boot.

The ex-Huntsman cursed himself, how in fuck's sake had he sunken so far? Essentially rolling to his belly, like a subservient dog to this black-eyed bitch. Disgust boiled in his gut, he had let Ruby pierce her sword into Sam, led her willingly through the Black Forest, believed her coercive promises, if anything he deserved this. Ruby's sword belonged in his stomach, jerked until blood seeped the forest floor. In all honesty Dean had wanted to be dead for so long, the second Sam had sunk to his knees. He was hallowed no longer human at this point, the loss of his baby brother shadowing his soul. Dean was no better than a ghost, drifting from bars and daydreaming Ruby's torn skin. If he was actually as brave as others praised, he would've slit his own throat by now. Only gulping down enough alcohol to repress the urge, wallowing and praying he'd die from it too scared to lift the knife to himself. Instead he had let the kingdom win, drowning in their squalor, lying brazen in their streets. Who was he kidding? Dean didn't even have the audacity to kill himself, only a Huntsman could uphold that honor.

He lost that status ages ago.

Even now he wished for drink.

Ruby blinked nightshade rimming her eyes, Dean knew he should feel horror especially when her sword tickled his chin, but he felt absolutely nothing. Sneering, the demon paused in her actions crouching to face the ex-Huntsman nose to nose. Careful fingers padded his cheeks, prodded his lips, and Ruby snickered.

"Still so pretty even with the gruff," Ruby tolled tugging Dean's beard. "You were so close too."

Dean perked, eyes widening. For the first time since he lavished himself in pleasures, he felt an ember of hope.

"Close to wha-?"

A thundering neigh intruded Dean's final goodbye, Claire hadn't been dormant and the mare was whickering wildly. Perched on the steed was Dean's accomplice, hood once again crowding his face with longbow strung. Ruby peered at him with disdain coloring her face, she didn't move from Dean though. The demon lay low with sword pricking his breast plate.

"Move Ruby, or I shoot." Oh god that _voice, _it jolted Dean every time. Throaty and well-spoken, Dean didn't know if it would ever stop surprising him. Ruby scoffed though, throwing her head back to release a full-blown cackle.

"Hah! Like you would even dare, I got your boyfriend under my knife baby." Though most of the stranger's face was shaded by his hood, a thriving saturation of blue survived. Dean never felt so small under a gaze, so intense it burned like brimstone. Deft fingers pulled back the arrowhead farther, the bow strained but quelled under its practiced handler.

"I will not say it again." Ruby stilled, finally collecting on the man's threats. Through the scrimmage she had abandoned a great deal of armor, neck, breast, and most leg, uncovered. Even if she could beat the man's arrow to stab Dean… she'd certainly fall to the bow. Not a single one of his arrows had missed target.

Slowly, Ruby rose from Dean. Arms up in surrender (sword still clutched tightly), the demon backed gingerly from the ex-Huntsman, chortling. She burst off into the forest, laughter never leaving her lips. Dean spurt up nursing his stressed wrist and bundling his axe away. Now he was in debt to a total stranger. Wonderful. Let us count the fuck ups of Dean Winchester.

The stranger extended a hand but Dean declined it, cooing his dog (blood soaked but beaming) to his side. Impala whined to her master and Dean calmed the beast, rubbing her ears in praise. He lunged the dog from the forest floor, breasting her over his shoulder and then scrabbling onto Claire. Though it was a lot of weight, the pony did not seem to waver, she was young and ecstatic on riding. Dean crawled to the front of the horse, the runaway sitting behind him and eyeing him. The gawk felt hot on Dean, commanding without a single word being spoken. Despite his better judgment, Dean steered his eyes to meet his mysterious companion. A blast of lighting would have been less severe.

"Who _are_ you?" Dean meant to say something witty, something smart ass, to brush off the quiver those dark lashes gave. But this was all that escaped no censor on his tongue. And how could he? Eyes so violent and blue they nearly mimicked the thrash of ocean waves. A man who Dean had all been mesmerized by, caught captive, warred alongside, and rescued in less than a stroke on an hour? Dean couldn't help but marvel at his audacity, and at the same time loathe his ambiguity. Every moment with him left Dean bridled with emotion, even when he hadn't felt anything real in so long.

And goddammit he didn't even know the man's name.

Crowley had disappeared once the fight had thickened, but his dogs remained. The dirt was speckled with soupy purple gook, scattered darts nestled into their invisible aims. But the stranger's missiles hadn't eased the dogs entirely; they still snarled and crowded Claire. Combative, Claire was a trueborn war mount the pony whirred and kicked out at the hellhounds snapping her horseshoes. Dean knew then that this wasn't over, that the hounds wouldn't quit. When one fell, two took its place as if sprouting from the ground itself. The man, who had gawped at Dean like he was a blind man seeing for the first time, hoisted himself from Claire to straddle her backwards. Longbow hooked with arrows, the points bolting what seemed to be three dogs at a time. Dean, slow on the uptake, fitted his feet in the stirrups situating his dog in his lap, and kicked Claire onwards. The mare hurtled ahead, speedier than Dean expected with such weight, but maybe not fast enough. Foggy pink skies had lessened, tinting gray brash on the horizon. Night was coming soon, and they needed to seek shelter before the sun was washed away by evening. Already the Black Forest yapped in the daytime, nightfall would make it into a whole new animal.

So here was Dean and his new fucking gang, a spastic horse, bloodied old mutt, and a hooded vigilante. All of a sudden the ex-Huntsman felt more like a burdened family man than a bounty hunter gone rogue. Impala howled and Claire joined her whinnying, Dean felt he could nearly join them. Criminals with otherworldly creatures nipping at their heels, the stranger kept them at bay with arrows but the apprehension dawdled.

"Jimmy." That gravel tone broke Dean's thoughts. So quiet he could hardly sense, but the stranger was so close he could feel his counted breaths on each shoulder blade.

"Wha-?"

"My name. It's Jimmy Novak."

* * *

Castiel knew the second he saw him, it was Dean Winchester.

It was a little difficult to place him twelve years had brought Dean even more changes than Castiel. Tip toeing among the awnings Castiel first spotted him, barking orders and waving hands hysterically at a man pawing a scorpion. Bearded, cladded in furs, and aided by an enormous hound, Dean had surely changed. His skin was sun kissed, every inch of him golden, framed by muscled arms. If it wasn't for the worn broken expression he bore, Dean would have been the vision of a Huntsman. Something had broken Dean in all these years, something so grave it withered the man to the bone. Castiel felt his heart ache in longing, his first instinct to comfort. But he doesn't, in fact he does the exact opposite.

Instead he begins to fire.

Castiel is careful to avoid Dean, each stroke pierces the men but navigates around the Winchester. Even when Dean Winchester has the crest of his axe pointed towards Cas, he is tight on the feather. Never would he hurt the Huntsman, not even when the lasso caught his ankle and tugged him back to captivity. He refused, because Dean was his last childhood memory, last living embodiment that things had once been _good. _That Michael had cradled him, Anna had cooed him to sleep, a time where Cas had a home.

Now though Castiel would surrender under Dean Winchester, he would do all in his power to resist Ruby. Balthazar's sacrifice hadn't been for nothing, the servant had given Castiel all he had to the lost prince. So he beseeched Dean's assistance, and was awarded with Dean's lips to his ear allotted by a cocky grin. The two fighting back to back had seemed like a muddled dream, as if they were boys play fighting in the wood again. But this time blood was spurting, and scabbed knees were the least of their worries. The mutt, Impala, leapt into battle quicker than some soldiers. Claire stomping around on hellhounds viciously, the horse had been a worthy confidant to Castiel constantly proving her use. The one who astounded Cas the most though, was Dean. Valiantly the man fought, moments later a brute was puddled in his own body's leakage. Ruby was more of a challenge; Castiel flung arrows while eyeing the Huntsman and demon's battle. Swift, the demon pranced around Dean like a flaunted deer, obviously teasing him into battle. And when she finally had enough, restrained Dean to the ground, blade about to plunder his skin.

Fear took root to Castiel's heart, and he defended Dean despite the hounds that barricaded him. Luckily, Claire was astute enough to hold them off while he convinced Ruby to release the Huntsman. Now, Dean was affront of Claire the four of them riding onwards still even when the hellhounds had retreated. Silence was as heavy as the humidity of the Black Forest, but Castiel was happy. Happier than he had been in a long, long, time, and Castiel was nearly giddy. He hadn't given Dean his true name, only the alias that the fellow cellblock prisoners knew, Castiel wasn't sure how Dean would react and he didn't know if the man would even believe him. Truly, Dean would be suspicious maybe accuse Castiel of impersonations. The prince had been declared dead over a decade ago, how in the hell could he convince such a wrecked individual his childhood friend was back from the dead? No, Castiel would lay low. Feel the ground him and Dean walked on, return to the Huntsman and reveal his identity, if Dean agreed by then all would be well. If not… well… Cas didn't want to dwell.

That night the four of them, two wearied soldiers, along with two bizarre animals, rested beneath the vacant grassed summit. Castiel requested a fire, the cold wet and barefaced in his bones, but Dean chuffed him muttering about dumb shit newbies. Both Huntsman and dog were curled around each other, lost in sleep on the other side. Castiel was resting with Claire, watching his long lost friend wistfully. When Dean awoke, he called Cas a son-of-a-bitch, nicknamed him Jim, and drifted off to sleep once more.

Yes, Castiel was happy.

* * *

**Authors Note's: **Done! Yaaaaaaay! This wasn't as long as last chapter but it had more action so I hoped that would make up for the loss. Also Crowley! He is the only demon I like so of course he's in this! I know this wasn't much like the movie, it seems this AU is drifting farther and farther. But I know have a full blown plot handled and organized in my brain for this AU, now to get it on word. Thanks for your reviews guys, keep 'em coming they really speed up the process.


	5. Sticks And Stones May Break My Bones

**Name: **Crowned

**Summary: **AU. Destiel. Long ago a queen wished for a child with skin glossy as snow, hair jet as a raven's wing, and lips redder than blood. This child is borne, his story breeds grief, betrayal, honor and love. What will become of him? (Loosely based on Snow White and the Huntsmen)

**Author's Notes: **Hey guys! Here's another chapter. I know I suck but I didn't anticipate this to be so… big. Like it's already 30k and I thought it'd be over by now. But it's still just beginning haha. Anyway your reviews, hits, etc. are making me so incredibly happy. It all means a lot to me so thank you. Oh and THIS STORY ISN'T OVER. A guest reviewer was like 'bad ending' and I go… well duh it's not the ending yet silly! Unless that was for the chapter…which I agree it was a shitty ending. I was tired ok . Also I'm thinking of writing a oneshot (long one though) AU where Dean is a half wolf with a husky Castiel and they live in Alaska with a baby Mastiff Sam and the idea just won't leave my head… So I might work on that also. This is number one on my lists though! Thanks again!

**Chapter: **Sticks And Stones May Break My Bones

**Chapter Summary: **Castiel watches, Dean is too blind to see much of anything.

* * *

For the first time in years, Dean dreams of Cas.

Dean could barely recall the lines of the boy's face, how his clothes fell on his body, or his even tone of voice. Sure, he hadn't ever truly left Dean's mind. Thoughts of the boy loomed over him his entire childhood, constant dreams of the prince sticky with blood. Castiel inhabited his thoughts frequently, though Sam's death plus time had sponged the memories…his best friend never truly left him. Ale though, had been the main cause for Cas to dwindle away. It clogged Dean from every painful endeavor, mostly Sammy, but also Castiel, his mother, his father's disdain, any insecurity that withered him. And once Dean jolted awake, he suspected this lack of drink was the reason why. Alcohol had blurred Dean's perception on everything, licking away all that had defined him. There was no other reason for this, even mentality didn't just snap around without reason.

Because for the first time in twelve years, Dean's dreams of Cas wasn't a nightmare.

The most remarkable part of this dream was that it was_ vivid, _not a daze of color and faces but sharp distinct images. Dean could almost dub it lucid dreaming, but he wasn't completely in control. His body wasn't his own, as most dreams, actions conducted by his own subconscious. But Dean honestly didn't mind who his puppeteer was, because he was eight again without a worry in sight. His limbs were dimpled and fatter, teeth crooked popping out at all sides, with a fluff of hair that surpassed his brow. Pressed on his back lying in the grass, something he hadn't done in years. Castiel was combing through Dean's hair his head plopped on the boys lap. Completely opposite of Dean's lazy stretch Castiel was rigid, back straight and head pointed forwards. Nonetheless Dean felt he looked content, drenched in sunshine mud staining his shirt and cheeks. The two must've been perusing in the creek again, their hiding spot from the world, and decided to rest nearer to the castle gates. Dean nearly thought he was revisiting an old memory if it wasn't for the fact that he eyed three-year-old Sammy squealing and nibbling grass ten feet away from them.

Never did Cas set eyes on Dean's brother. Even at eight years old Dean was fiercely protective, no one handled Sammy but him and his father. Of course Dean felt the sting of regret years later when he recited hundreds of stories to his brother of a boy he would never know. It was doubtful Sam would emit substantial memories at this age, but Dean couldn't help letting his mind wander. So he knew this was a dream, him and Cas supervising his baby brother like some fucked up version of parenting.

Blades of grass tickled his forearms, sun kissed his skin pink, the familiar sheen of sweat lathered his body, it was so authentic. But as Castiel bent down, an invisible smile tugging at his mouth (something Dean noticed because Cas never smiled with teeth he only did it with _his whole body) _greeting him with a "Hello Dean", he knew there was something wrong. It seemed every detail was right, rumpled exterior, tangled black locks, straight back, but his eyes… they were gray. They weren't gray. That was wrong. A sense of urgency brewed inside him, wanting to diagnose Cas's eye problem. All he could do though was continue staring back at Cas, still threading his way through Dean's hair, like a zombie.

"Uh… Sammy…" Like lava Dean speaks, slow and the words burn his throat. Dean couldn't help but cry for his younger brother, wanting to cradle the boy until reality tore him from his fingers. Castiel glances up, spying Sammy now examining a lady bug.

"Sam is perfectly safe." Strict guided sentences, Dean could melt at the repressed memories.

"This isn't real." Dean knows these words are no good, but he says them anyway. Maybe releasing them will relieve him from the dream's constraints. But even these words are controlled, a warm paradise that Dean can't take full advantage of.

"No." Castiel drones, and cups Dean's cheeks. "You have done foolish things Dean."

And as if on cue, hot and salty tears brim his eyes. He can't remember the last time he cried, any tear he had was drained by his brother's death. Crying was different in a dream, even more so as an eight year old, it didn't really hold any sort of monumental reprieve just curbed frustration. Like Dean was a dissatisfied toddler. "What the fuck was I supposed to do Cas? I lost you, and that fucking hurt. Everything was my fault and I missed you so fucking much, but I could still do it. But when Sammy was gone there…there was nothing… there hasn't been since."

The sweet chime of Sam's giggles dim, and Dean feels his pocket of Eve morph around him. Reality is on his heels and he didn't even get… no it wasn't fair not enough time… Dean's world distorts and he watches helpless, the grass shatters, trees bend into nothing, Sam fades into swashes of color, and yet Castiel remains. Pleasant sunbathing is replaced with the hard mold of dirt. Frigid morning air whistles in his ear, a heavy weight balanced on his leg. Castiel does his whole body grin one more time, now so close Dean feels his breath hitch and their noses brush. Dean can't help but think Cas looks like a spirit as he grows transparent in thick black backdrop.

"Don't trust him. He'll be the end of you."

The world drops at his feet.

* * *

"Dean."

There is that voice again.

"Dean."

Not that enchanting this early in the morning.

"Dean, I advise you to wake up." A press on his shoulder and Dean realizes a hand has been resting there. Not just resting, but _clutching_, hard with padded fingers digging. And it's so warm against the morning air that Dean almost doesn't mind, while the guy is at it why doesn't he just drape…

Woah, woah, stop.

Dean cracks an eye open to gaze at a very bizarre sight. There is Jimmy, squat on his knees with one hand hell-bent on dislocating Dean's shoulder. The shelf of his brow is rippled, mouth set into a hard line, looking very disgruntled indeed. Beside him bays Claire with a muzzle tangled in Dean's hair. And on his left is Impala, lapping his cheek and scouring with silver coin eyes. If it wasn't the goat it was something else. Well it seemed Dean would never wake up like a normal fucking human being.

Balanced on his elbows, Dean swatted away Jimmy. Eyeing the man with distrust, he shrugged away the horse (saliva now moistening his brow) and locked his dog beneath his arm. Impala whined a bit more, but continued to lap at his fingers. Dean knew this behavior. The dog was only this upset when he experienced night terrors.

"What's up with the groping? Haven't you ever heard of personal space?" Dean spat, he was normally curt in the morning. He nearly felt regret as he watched Jimmy's eyes flash away from him. Honestly he didn't deserve asshole Dean, but the bastard had dragged him from such a memorable dream…

"You were screaming."

Oh. Silence festered in the alcove. Both men fidgeted at this, Dean perturbed by the violence such a soft dream evoked from him. Jimmy just seemed all together uncomfortable with the aspect of human interaction. How long exactly was this guy sealed away?

"Well can't you try to restrain Miss Slobber mouth? Christ will I ever wash this out?" Grumbling, Dean flags away globs of spit. It doesn't help with his mutt struggling so much, and he manages to catch some on his lip. Oh son of a bitch that is _disgusting. _Looking to Claire for apology he gets none, just the mare whickering and chewing on Jim's lapels.

"I apologize. I just wanted…." Jimmy's voice wavers and this catches Dean's attention. The man looks so wound, like his skin is three sizes too small. "I wanted it to stop."

"Yea sorry about that. I can't help it sometimes. Guess you're going to have to deal with it huh?" The reply was supposed to be funny. Lighten the mood. Put some cheer into the guy. Instead he actually grimaced, lip tucked between his teeth and a look of terror on his face.

"Erm… why don't we eat something?"

Eating something morphs into Jimmy tentatively nibbling at his rations and Dean gulping at his flask. Cross-legged and sitting across from one another, Jimmy has perfect weird-empty-death-stare position. It's unnerving to say the least and as Dean reaches for the dried meats, eyes track him accordingly. They eat in silence, and questions shadow Dean's mind. Because he had just signed up to travel with a complete stranger, through a forest he could hardly remember, and wondering why in hells name he didn't just pass along the sociopath? When Jim peers at him through a shade of bangs he remembers.

"So, who are you?"

"James Novak." Jimmy squints at Dean perplexed. "I believe we already went over this."

"Very informative." Dean grunts.

"I don't understand." Lowering the food that pressed on his lips, Jimmy flashes another look of concern. "Is there something else you acquire?"

Impala trots back into the cave, rabbit limp in her jaws. The mutt was skilled at attaining her own food. Especially in the Black Forest, returning to her niche easier than Dean had. She slips beneath Dean's resting hand and devours eagerly. Trying to avoid her blood stained muzzle, Dean pats the animal who seems pleased with her kill. At that moment Dean just wished it was him and his dog. Talking at the moment seemed just too exhausting.

"C'mon man." Dean sighs and gathers a cheek in the palm of his hands. "You literally wiped out a whole platoon, outran the royal guard, and expect me to think you were arrested for possessing what….?"

"Spell books."

"Spell books really? You don't look like the type that practices black magiks."

Jimmy tilts his head and Dean nearly expects him to chirp. How was it possible for a person to resemble anything but a human?

"I was wrongly accused. My brother possessed them." Dean cocks an eyebrow at that. But Jim doesn't seem to notice and resumes plopping in dried fruits on his tongue.

"Brother? That's new."

Turning up with a harsh glare Jimmy tightens a fist on his knee. Dean could easily sense the man's annoyance with his prodding. But fuck him Dean wasn't going to waltz in this blind. Everything around this man was shrouded in mystery. Just the way he tensed up over Dean's questions enforced his interrogation. Never had Dean trekked such a journey without Sammy. To even begin with an absolute stranger was preposterous. Might as well pull teeth and learn as much as he can.

"Am I not allowed family?" It comes out like chewed gravel. Hoarse and dry, striking Dean in the swell of his back.

"No. Just wondering why in the hells name your brother stashed his books at your place?"

"He was incarcerated and in need for a favor. I agreed to it."

"And it gets your ass handed in the shit?"

"I don't understand what you mean. My house was excavated for illegal substances and I was tried for treason."

Dean could nearly chuckle at the scrunched expression Jimmy receives. The man was obviously sheltered, or possibly educated enough to avoid any slum talk. Every sentence is carefully structured and thoughtfully planned. Suddenly Dean imagines Jimmy's brother. Both of them marble, stoic and speaking dully once spoken to. Like two drones seeking instruction. Dean's lips twitch into a smile, until he realizes something crucial. What if this well-mannered façade was because Jim hadn't actually entered the real world….secured away.

"…How long were you exactly in custody?"

The question doesn't linger, it _seeps_ into the room. Dean nearly regrets it by the clogged cotton-balled quiet it weighs. Neither speaks but Jimmy is the one pawing at the ground. When he does shape his mouth, he becomes tentative. Lips pulled in mulling over a response. Creating something lifeless, something to stop any chance of Dean's digging. Instead Jimmy does the opposite. When their eyes interlock all of Dean's stomach plummets.

"Long."

Dean clasps at his hands. Threading his knuckles to touch worn callouses, many dissolved by disuse. Jimmy has completely stopped at attempting to eat. It doesn't slip Dean's attention how little he has eaten today and yesterday. No sign of knotted stomach, not a tremble from hunger. Was it actually possible for a man to run on so little?

But of course compared to Dean's Jimmy has eaten like a king. He thumbs his flask.

"How did you know who I was?" Switching subjects seemed appropriate. He couldn't stand that haunted look that was in Jimmy's eyes. Like all he ever loved had been drained from the world. It was disturbing for a man so apathetic to crumble at a mere question. Painting as more than just a felon Dean snagged. Thankfully Jimmy is also comfortable with the change because he darts back up to Dean, clear-eyed. Itchy to respond once he hunches over settled.

"The famous Dean Winchester cannot even escape my ears." Jimmy slyly states. Was that sarcasm? Dean felt laughter purse through his lips despite it all. It lights Jimmy's eyes quicker than any of the attacks relayed on him yesterday. Goose flesh prickles all over Dean.

"Alright, alright, I get it. I'm awesome."

Jimmy chuckles and for once the sound isn't hollow. Good god.

"Seriously though, did you know I was at the kingdom?" Dean reinstates his point arching a brow at Jimmy. It wasn't actual _news_ that Dean Winchester, firstborn of John, had crawled to the streets. Some noticed, pointing fingers at him when he swayed drunkenly in the streets. Others fazed right through him. Nothing but another bum picking crumbs off cobblestones. For the most part only the royal guard was aware of Dean's return. He highly doubted a man imprisoned for so long anticipated his arrival. In fact he shouldn't even recognize him. Dean was certain that he hadn't ever laid an eye on this fool –despite this déjà vu he kept experiencing—along with choppy hair and beard Dean didn't think his own father would. Jimmy had spoken Dean's name way before the demons had squabbled. Like clenched teeth the chills grate Dean's skin.

Jimmy's face was stunned; Dean could notice he was chewing the inside of his cheeks. Seemed to him Jim wasn't that hard to read once you got the hang of it. When emotion struck him it was straight in the jaw.

"There was a woman," When Jimmy talks Dean it's as if he is narrating, not explaining. The story not at all attached to him but a distant protagonist. "On the cellblock. She was incredibly kind and spoke to me. I think she was trying to search for you. Aware you were in the kingdom gates but not the exact lotion."

A thin scraping feeling circles in Dean's gut. He guesses that this was how a fish felt nailed and gutted for all to see. Even Impala notes the color that drains from his face—nuzzling his forearm. Bitter bile floods his mouth, hands breed knuckle white, suppressed shivers slip into limbs, Jimmy jolts up. But this doesn't give Dean any sort of reassurance, just filters more anxiety in his system. His brain couldn't even catch up to his body's responses, not entirely sure why he was reacting so violently. What could literally bring his body to shambles so quick he couldn't even bat an—

And then, the thought.

_Jo._

"Dean do you require—" Jimmy inches forward, palms open, with the most earnest eyes. Dean instantly flinches, sure as hell not wanting anything to do with this bastard until he got answers. Because…because _Jo._ Probably the only other that Dean considered family apart from his father. She was nothing but a baby in his eyes, treading in his footsteps. How had she fallen so far that she was in the cellblock of Lilith's kingdom!? More important why was no one in the clan not preventing this? Dean knew how stubborn Jo could be. Kicking and screaming at him for abandoning her on his hunts. But if anything Dean had thought Ellen would slam any dream of Jo leaving the clan. What had changed in his absence, what had Jo fallen under?

"I don't understand. Dean please—" Jimmy tries again while Dean stares bottomless at his boots. Sentences form despite his slack tongue.

"What was her name?"

"Do you mean…?" A pointed glare shuts Jimmy up before he can articulate a thought. Puffed chapped lips harden in a grim line. Dean sees it before Jim can speak, the strict body language returns. With a step away from the ex-Huntsman and an orderly stature, the statue is back.

"Joanna Harvelle. Her mother Ellen Harvelle had been dismissed from the city." Dean nods with his head bowed. So many questions he swore he could taste them on his god dammed tongue. "So I can confirm you were well acquainted."

"Fuck yes we were 'well acquainted'." Mocking tone did not brazen Jimmy's vacant eyes. "Why the hell was she in that joint?!" The question was more for Dean than Jimmy, but the drone did as promised. Information processed before Dean could think himself.

"Mother and daughter were captured in a raid. Jo attempted in stabbing Queen Lilith, failed and sent to the block. Her mother was escorted off the premises by the royal guard."

That was hard to imagine. If Dean was right Ellen was probably dragged by dogs to even pass the kingdom's gates. Never had Dean seen such devotion from family—except for maybe Sam and himself—Ellen would have never surrendered her daughter so easily. That whole family consisted of fiery soldiers, he expected no less.

"And she told you about me?" Finally Dean matches eyes with the man. Even if Jo had informed him about Dean's appearance, how would he spot him? Practically a shadow of Dean's former self.

"I was informed to seek the man with a wolf and an axe." Dean anticipated a cocky grin, but Jimmy just yielded his eyes to the humming Impala. Baby was so in tune to Dean's moods that she would try to comfort him. To her, Impala was Dean's pack mom and an incessant one at that. At his feet splayed his axe. It made sense, two things (after the death of Sammy) that defined him. Jo knew that Dean couldn't depart from his mutt or second arm.

"How is she?" Dean is hopeful, but that hope dies on his lips when Jim doesn't shoot an answer. It all but combusts when he twiddles with his thumbs. "Jim, don't you fucking lie to me."

The archer doesn't peek from his interweaving fingers. But he talks, gentle and hesitant.

"She was taken to the Queen before I escaped." Jimmy paused to asses Dean's reaction but he was already on his feet, stone cold. Impala barked upset about being outside of the loop. "I do not believe she is alive."

There is so much he should do. Like turn around and pummel every bastard that dared to even touch the Harvelles. Maybe feel grief like a normal functioning human being. Cry or some shit. Be able to comprehend how fucking terrible and empty he feels. Make sense of something as simple as…well as himself. Children could even understand what they wanted. Giggle when delighted. Rage when angered. Scream in mourning. And this is what he wants. To scream so loud the world would rip in half. Bleed for all the misfortunes that it burdened Dean Winchester with. Because even when he wasn't fucking _there _he was poisoning people he loved. Jo shouldn't have gone like this. She should have passed in sleep, with children and a man around her. But Dean had stolen that from her. Just like when he had stolen it from Sammy.

"Dean, if you'd like to know she—" And now Jimmy is behind him and he's trying to…pat his shoulder? Show comfort? It pikes some vicious creature inside him. Dean may have bestowed his curse on Jo, Jimmy was the messenger of such pain. Not even pain. But this nervous bite beneath his skin, confirming what he knew all along. And this….vulnerability wasn't for Jimmy. The man had no fucking right.

"Listen and don't you dare touch me." Dean is now turned, almost nose-to-nose with the startled runaway. Uncomfortable yes, but two could play the 'personal space' game. "We are going to leave. You are going to follow everything I say. And when I say everything, I mean _every little thing. _If I tell you to jump you fucking leap. And if you don't feel like it—great. I don't have a problem letting this forest chew you up and spit you out."

Jimmy nods when Dean finishes. So still Dean wonders if the man is actually holding his breath, damn he was better than he thought.

"And no more of this…sharing our feelings shit. This is business. I'm here to drop you off, get my money, and split. I don't have time dame stuff."

"If you insist Dean."

* * *

Castiel is learning.

He learns what fills Dean's tankard, watches the fluid rush down his throat before bed. It droops the Huntsman's eyes where no amount of darkness can. It coddles him awake in the pink morning and drained constantly through the afternoon. Castiel now knows the cause of Dean's deep creases. What absorbs any light from his eyes. The drink is so embedded in him that it even invades the scent of Dean, pungent and sour.

He learns that Dean's burdens follow him into sleep; over and over again the man awakens startled. This happens all night, sometimes Dean awakens completely and shoots Castiel a glare. Other times he moans, wriggling in an invisible grip. Body taut and still in a haze of dream, Castiel has to lay a hand of comfort for Dean to sleep once more. Nonetheless Castiel watches and waits. The prince had been conditioned to be nocturnal, slumbering in his chambers while the guards were awake and practicing form while the castle dreamed. Even so Castiel didn't sleep much in the first place. He sometimes pondered on it, why most people craved sleep while he barely managed four hours. It certainly didn't hinder Cas always regularly alert. Though while Dean suffered in his sleep, Castiel was awake assisting him, figuring he could shoulder some hours over to the man.

He learns tactics wise; Dean Winchester has not changed much. Still he considers himself leader, even with a ragtag team, he is a determined guide. Dean navigates the forest, sometimes riding on Claire, sometimes prowling in the underbrush with Impala. Alternatively, Castiel takes to the tree tops. Skating on branches with longbow in hand and eyes glued to the forest floor. Prying the forest was simple with two eyes to sky and earth. But Dean was decidedly against Castiel's path, suspicious of his escape, possibly an attack on Dean himself. He knew that the archer was nimble enough to spring from branch to branch, but to be trusted? Absolutely not. Somehow Castiel—well _Jimmy_ actually—convinced the man, he was no good a defense grounded. Arrows not effective if the assailant could sense them. This did still entail that Dean was "boss", he called when to rest, to feed (when for him to slurp his drink), even shitting was up to Dean's discretion. However Castiel didn't mind Dean's persistence, the rude remarks, because with each bark he imagined eight year old Dean directing their play.

He learns that Dean is broken. Physically he yields, bones brittle from battle, muscles stringy from drink, weight is stripped from him with each sip. He exhibits all traits of a soldier, but continuously falls prey to rookie mistakes. A block exists in the Winchester's head barricading the rumored skills of an excellent Huntsman. Risks come naturally, and it is as if the man cares not if he and his axe slip into ruin. But this is not what chills Castiel. No it is Dean's _silence_. As a child Dean was a chatterbox, drilling Cas on strategies his father taught him, adventures around the kingdom, myths and tales he overheard from guards. Dean never had an off button. Of course Dean isn't ever truly silent, yapping at Cas to "stop being a goddamned bird or some shit and eat", or commanding his team to usher onwards. There is though more pauses, more empty staring, less demand for attention. Flitting through life and only speaking when needed, all the stories sapped out of him.

Castiel learns and he aches for more.

* * *

At night it isn't unusual for Impala to disappear.

After the two boys would polish off whatever Castiel pinned, Impala would normally skirt around their camp, and then venture off for her own dinner. Dean constantly offered her strips of fat which Baby snapped up happily. But the dog was perfectly capable (and happiest) to obtain her own meals, the forest mapped in her brain. No one fussed about it because it eased the stress for food. Combing the brush had become exhausting, their rations growing thin.

As promised the forest had come alive, taunting the group with new tricks every day. Trails swallowed up from the earth itself. Vegetation would suddenly bite with mouthfuls of teeth. Drastic changes of weather that concocted bloodthirsty storms to trail them. According to Dean it was all child's play. While the occasional pack of hellhounds did appear, they were easily slain and without the demon Crowley. It kept all of them on their toes. Waiting for what lurked in the forest's jaws.

Castiel chose, at first, to ignore Impala's advanced absence. He had commented on it before and encountered Dean's 'that-animal-has-more-sense-than-you-do' speech. So he remained silent even though the sun was waning. After eating Castiel began inspecting Claire's hooves—shoes impacted with dirt—and caught the flash of worry in Dean's eyes. Around this time Impala was nose deep in a rabbit carcass. Tearing ecstatically into flesh and attempting to offer bits to them. But the dog still did not show. The ex-Huntsman chewed on his fingernails and kept scoping the perimeter for the limping mutt. Hands tangled in Claire's mane, Castiel gaped as he sought the words to address the issue. He found it extremely difficult conversing with the Winchester after their reunion. Every answer was flippant towards the prince. Wanting nothing to do with Cas and being invested with him was just another anchor. So Castiel tip-toed around the man, only speaking after thoroughly articulating his sentences. Never did Castiel feel weaker. It didn't help that Cas hadn't properly spoken to anyone but Balthazar for twelve years. Jeers, orders, and death threats had been the extent of his social career.

But then Dean was frantically rifling for the bottle. And Castiel knew the subject couldn't be put to rest.

"Impala is not home." Walking on eggshells, Castiel tries to sound as timid as possible. "Soon it will be night time."

Instead of answering Dean squeezes the leather bound pouch. Not a drop escapes the lip but Dean continues with his onslaught. Tongue seeking any sort of drink the canteen could spare. The prince sensed this would be worrisome, Dean was running low on alcohol and it was affecting every fiber of the Huntsman. With a curse, he chucks the empty vessel near his belongings, fingers twitching like they were still wringing out ale. The hot heavy glare that meets Cas isn't comforting.

"She still has that god dammed limp." Dean murmurs, as if talking only to himself, but his eyes never leave Cas. A hand shoots up to rub his scrunched brow line. "I need to do something about that."

"Is it possible she is injured?" Stepping forward Castiel leaves Claire to be closer to Dean. The mare doesn't mind, munching on bright spurts of grass. From what Dean has described Castiel's 'invasion of personal space' was abnormal, but he could not help but gravitate towards Dean. Even in a fit of rage Castiel ached for _proximity. _He suspected it was from all the years of treasuring their childhood memories that glancing at Dean was like a portal to then. If maybe he could touch him they'd be children once more.

Dean grunts, he doesn't even note Castiel's vicinity, and grabs a tangle of his hair.

"I…I fucking don't know. Baby always comes back. I've set her on werewolves and she was able to kick their asses to kingdom come." As Dean speaks though both him and Cas ponder on the same thought. Impala was a fierce remarkable animal, but was withering with age. Her limp became more pronounced with each day, black hide was dotted in white, every reflex had slackened. Maybe a few years ago a werewolf would be no problem…now…

"It would be wise to look for her. The longer we wait the faster it will turn dark." Even that was taboo though, trees shadows turning into dark planes. The Huntsman was nodding wildly, a lip gripped in his teeth, and gathering his axe in one hand.

"We can't leave at night. Fuck. We're so royally fucked." Mantras similar to this rush from Dean's tongue, Castiel concludes it may be a way for the Huntsman to organize his thoughts so lets him be. A strew of curses his best comfort.

As Castiel tugged Claire from her excursions and Dean saddled up his gear, Cas noticed Dean flush. Beneath the knots of hair all of his skin turned sickly. It took all of Castiel's power not to rush to Dean's side. Choosing to sling his quiver and longbow instead.

"What if we can't find her?" Dean has a thumb to his blade, staring at the steel like it holds the answer. "I don't even know where to start."

"We will find her Dean. She would not fall easily."

The look Dean gives him spikes a hot shiver through his spine.

An hour passes, and there is no such luck. And maybe if it wasn't for the prickle that directs Castiel, Impala would've been lost forever. All odds are against them. Dark festered in all corners of the forest. The gloom pawing at their skins, for night in the Black Forest was another creature. Curled up by Claire Castiel would swear that it nearly suffocated him in sleep. Thick and unforgiving, it ends any clues to Impala whereabouts. It was a miracle (or maybe an act of desperation) that Dean accepts Cas's lead. And Castiel feels his feet ghost him onwards, not completely sure how or why. In the back of the prince's mind he worries if this is just another strange thing about him to add to the list, but tries to silence that as he searches. Any consequence from this bizarre puppeteer would happen later. All that mattered now was to find Impala.

And they find her alright…battling four vampires.

Well Castiel doesn't actually know they are vampires until one latches himself to his neck. Thankfully Dean is quick enough to slice the throat before the fangs settle. Within half a second the two are spurred back into action once more. Claire speeds forwards to knock out her opponents and shield Impala (it was remarkable how fast the animals acquitted to one another). Castiel and Dean become a unit without question. As Castiel launches arrows to ground the creatures while Dean decapitates them. The Huntsman's work isn't easy; it takes a few good hacks to sever the tissue. Meanwhile he is punching away their comrades and blood squirts from the bodies. Bruised and slick with blood, the man can't keep up.

Castiel attempts to be useful. Going so far as to grip his arrowhead and plunge them into the eyes of the perpetrators. But he doesn't have the brute strength that Dean possesses and is continually beaten down. A flurry of arrows can't truly kill a vampire. Only hinder its motion. So Castiel reverts to shooting without thought or mercy. Striking their tender necks, or splintering the back of their knees. Anything he could do to deter the abuse on Dean (whose stance was beginning to waver). Trickery of the forest began, black swarming by the emergence of thunderheads. Many of Castiel's arrows fall to the wayside for even his shot couldn't aim in such shadow.

Soon there is only two out of the four left. The first—who continues to clasp to Castiel like a delectable snack—is rutted through by a jagged tree stump. The second is met with Dean's blade after Castiel pops arrows at the soft rings of her ankles. The third is straddled by Dean, whose axe is tearing through meat and bone by the palm of his hands. Castiel is distracting the final vampire-and even in the dark Cas could see the sheen of blood- by firing arrows towards all major joints. Every step, an arrow is released. One sought to each knee, several crooked in the nape, and Castiel aims for the vulnerable elbow. An animalistic growl escapes the vampire and Castiel pauses in alarm. This is all it takes for the creature to surge forward, cast Cas to the ground, and bullet for Dean.

Thankfully the vampire had actually given Dean the extra strength to chop spine and kill the third. Her body stills and gurgles up clogged blood to coat Dean's fingers. The fourth has fingers hooked around Dean's throat, Castiel can hear the choked sounds. And then the thing speaks, but not just one voice, but many. A cacophony of jilted threats strain the air and Castiel can see Dean loosening under the fight. Every cell of Cas wants to dart forward and bat away Dean's oppressor. But he remains frozen. It is a hell he never thought existed.

"Well Dean fucking Winchester huh? Didn't think I'd see your face around here again." The vampire leans forward and laps at Dean's bloodied cheek, something knots in Castiel. "But you can't stay away can you? You killed half my clan. Do you realize that? My FUCKING FAMILY. And then you and your boyfriend kill my new brothers and sisters? I just fucked with the mutt. Kicked her around. It was fun to watch her whine like a bitch."

Dean hunches forward and pulls at vampire's grip. Another centimeter to breathe he struggles like a stubborn stallion. Still the creature holds, and tightens his knees for the ride.

"Do you know what it's like to run when you know your family is dying for you!? To hide like a coward when their killer still roams? When every day you drink blood but it falls flat, knowing only revenge with satiate you. And then…" Slamming a foot downwards on Dean's ankle, the Huntsman gives a muffled scream. "See their killer right in front of you. So warm and _alive, _justlike Christmas and thanksgiving all rolled into one."

Castiel finally feels his limbs twitch alive. Each movement a spasm to his skin, and he feels like pins and needles are pricking him. Scooting forward, Castiel wrenches open the packs on Claire's saddle. The dagger Balthazar bestowed to him tumbled in his palm.

"But…who am I kidding?" Dean had stiffened, air denied from him too long, and begun to fall beneath the vampire. "You practically killed your own brother."

Just as Castiel is about to attack, Dean backfires on his opponent. Somehow he rolls and barricades the vampire with one hand knotted at his wrist and the other curled at his axe. He doesn't speak to the vampire but his movements are so flustered and quick Castiel can spot the panic. Each downward stroke is heavy, not precise like the others. It causes the vampire more distress, as his neck is mauled by Dean's axe. Bubbles of blood foam its mouth along with startled screams (which Dean then moves to clamp down with his fist). Instead of three or four strikes to slice the head, Dean lashes nine upon the vampire.

Even when the neck is cut raw and head is dismantled he still strikes. Attacking the chest, slicing at the arms, and whatever else Dean can reach. In the process Dean is coated in the monster's blood, his clothes sodden with it, beard and ponytail wet. When he is finally satisfied, he moves from the creature and stands.

Castiel can only stare at the man, because even his shadow doesn't resemble him.

Rumpled, black, thunderheads snarl unexpectedly bringing a downpour.

"You have a brother…Sam." When Castiel says it, it is more like a memory. Because he knew this, knew this on their journey, but hadn't anticipated… Dean hadn't spoken about Sam once and there had to be a reason. And all of a sudden that dead look that dwindled in Dean Winchester's eyes made sense.

"Had."

No matter how hard it rained the blood didn't wash from their clothes.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **So I stayed up until one in the morning writing this. Please be proud of me fandom because it was difficult to not just put it off another day. I couldn't handle that though I'm already two days late of my deadline Anyway thanks for putting up with me and this horrid chapter I don't know how you do it. I hope this wasn't too angsty… it'll get better I promise the boys won't be sad for long! Next chapter will be more fluffy promise. Anyway thanks for all the reviews, hits, etc. I love it!

P.S. Cas is lying about what Jo looking for Dean (obviously that didn't happen in chapter two). Cas is just a talented liar.


	6. Hellhounds, Vampires, Dragons, oh my!

**Name: **Crowned

**Story Summary: **AU. Destiel. Long ago a queen wished for a child with skin glossy as snow, hair jet as a raven's wing, and lips redder than blood. This child is borne, his story breeds grief, betrayal, honor and love. What will become of him? Loosely based on Snow White and the Huntsmen

**Author's Notes: **Wow I met my deadline! AHEAD OF TIME TOO! Hoorahhhh. Uhm this chapter sort of got the better of me. It went real differently in my head and well…here it is I guess. The reviews and follows etc have been great. I seem to have some regular readers which is exciting me and we hit 2,000 hits which is pretty freaking sweet right? Anyway I love you guys if you ever want to talk my tumblr is theresotherworldsthanthese you're all really cool people for reading my writing hah.

**Chapter: **Hellhounds, and Vampires, and Dragons, oh my!

**Chapter Summary: **Castiel and Dean slow down their trip. Of course the unexpected comes up.

* * *

"You smell like shit."

For the time being, they have camped. The afternoon is bright even through the arms of the Black Forest, and the sun beats down their backs without mercy. They haven't traveled far, ragged and sore from last night's battle, it seems Dean has lost interest in speed on his conquest. Castiel doesn't mind much. Over the past few days they had been gaining ground like madmen. Trying to outrun the creatures that hunted them, seek shelter before the forest sapped them of all their supplies. And Dean was incredibly desperate to break from Castiel's stares. So Castiel did not mind resting, happy to touch toe with the earth, and watch Dean slumber. Ex-Huntsman still continued his fitful nightmares and tormented screams. For once he was still, letting the sun blush his skin, have his fingers loosen from his axe. The animals though, are irritated. Impala is curled up beside Castiel's thigh (She had recently grown an affinity to him. Tail thumping at his arrival and nose buried at his knee) chewing the fur pads of her paws. A sign of discomfort, or maybe more of boredom. Claire has adopted the habit of grating her buckteeth into tree bark. Crunching at the meats of young oak and padding her horseshoes to soften the soil. They were going stark raving mad at Dean's sluggish commands, and Castiel mused if he should be concerned or not. He very much wanted Dean to leisure. Anguish had gripped the man's whole body when the vampires had attacked. Never would Castiel forget how foreign his childhood best friend was that night. Covered head-to-toe in congealed blood, hair sodden with goo, jade eyes ravenous with fury, it chilled Castiel still. The vampire had successfully wrenched to the surface what Castiel feared this whole time, and it was much worse than he had anticipated. To compare the image of Dean dozing in the sun with the night prior… almost made Cas question if it was a dream. But they needed to continue, who knew when Lilith would revamp her squadron and return for Cas, or if Crowley would reappear with another pack of drooling beasts. Castiel wants to speak to Dean about it, but he hasn't uttered a word since that night.

It doesn't surprise Castiel the first thing he says is an insult.

"I assure you I haven't been around any feces." Castiel grunts, stripping another long slice of wood from the arrow he'd been whittling. It didn't take long for him to run low, and so he had inspected the forest for wood to supplant more arrows. Thankfully Dean's axe was skillful in its original purpose as well, maple slicing easily for Castiel's use. So when they stopped Castiel would fashion his arrow shafts, and carve fresh heads. Maple was heavier than he was accustomed to, but durable and strong. He frequently practiced shooting at night with his new equipment, while Dean tossed and turned.

"Doesn't change the fact you stink to high heaven." When Dean sits up Cas darts his eyes to him, he looks annoyed but not in pain, an immense sense of relief washes over Cas. Dean stretches, popping his toes and shoulders. He plops an elbow on his knee, and squints at Castiel working, one hand pinching his nose. An influx of memories rushes to Cas. Younger Dean up nosed at Castiel's eating habits, the stench left by fish they caught, when Anna drenched the prince in perfumes.

Castiel represses them, and tilts his head at the man. "You think heaven would be pungent?" Sometimes when Dean spoke Castiel felt like an alien who had just landed to earth. Idioms flew out of Dean's mouth carelessly and Cas couldn't grasp any of them.

With a huff of annoyance, Dean rolls his eyes and plops up to his feet. Something among the lines of "why do I even bother" is murmured underneath his breath. As he stands both animals jump for his next move. Castiel can feel Impala wriggle and whine. She was the most upset out of the two of them. After the vampire incident Dean hadn't let the mutt out of his sight. Her wandering tendencies forbidden, now her every meal sought by the boys. Obviously Dean dreaded a reoccurrence, but Castiel felt pity for the animal that was practically half wild. To leash her seemed cruel.

"What I _mean_ is that we are pretty damn gross. I'm afraid if I lift my arms I might murder a small mammal."

"What do you suggest?" Cas inquires, raising a hand to his cheek. The scruff that normally rimmed his jawline was sprouting down his neck. Lilith had never allowed it to grow to this length, and Castiel had to thank her for at least that. The itching was implacable.

"I don't know maybe scrub off the blood and gore?"

"Agreed." Castiel secures an arrowhead on the shaft he'd been shaping, and secures it in his quiver. Both he and Impala bound to their feet, Castiel gathers his pack. "I assume you will be first. You are beginning to resemble a goat."

Dean cracks a gut holding laugh at that. Something in Castiel (other than his stink) rises to high heaven.

* * *

Dean hacks at his hair as if it's done him wrong. It reminds Castiel of the vampire he slaughtered. Torn ragged knots scatter at his boots, like sacrifices on a battlefield. He sits cross-legged, dagger (rusted with cretin blood no doubt) tight in his hands, and he tries to scale the back of his scalp. Castiel is supposed to be warranting his own unwanted mop as well, but Dean has proven…distracting.

With each slip of the knife, a little more of _Dean _emerges. Cheekbones arise from roughage, pronounced cleft chin unveils itself, ears splinter out. But most of all the freckles, speckling across his cheeks still a deep shade of brown. When they were children Dean was always self-conscious about his freckles. Cursing their existence because they demeaned him childlike, but of course Castiel favored them. After their play, when Dean snored like a Neanderthal, Castiel would take a hand at counting them. Back then, there had an abundance. No matter how long Castiel counted there was always more hiding in their midst. Now, if it was even possible, more had multiplied on the Winchester's face over the years. Deep tanned skin surfaced even more spots. The sun marking Dean Winchester as its own finger painting canvas, freckles trailed from his nose to the tendons of Dean's neck. Once Dean trimmed his beard, and gingerly swiped his face clean-shaved the entirety of Dean's freckles revealed themselves. It was so characteristically _Dean_ too, as he ducked his face to avoid Cas to spy any more. Still ashamed of the brown dots as if he hadn't aged a day. It made Castiel wish to count them, it made him wish Dean understood what they meant to him. Instead he remained quiet, struggling with his own hygiene.

"Geez Jim if I didn't know better I'd think you never tried shaving in your whole life."

The look Cas gives Dean makes the Huntsman's eyes widen.

"…What? Are you serious?" Dean gawps, mouth hanging open in utter shock. He skirts his dagger over the ridges of his hair once more, finalizing the cut. Castiel finds that he quite likes it. Not the shaggy mop the boy retained at eight, but favorable to the pony tail.

He fidgets beneath Dean's glare, and looks at his own dagger helplessly.

"Wow." Dean's mouth retains its 'o' as he contemplates. Gliding his thumbnail at the hilts ridges, it nearly looks like Dean is praising the knife. Meanwhile, Castiel attempts again at shaving. Pricking himself with each blunder of Balthazar's blade, it baffles him how steady his hand is at longbow, and how misguided it is at _shaving_. All of a sudden Castiel is back in the cell. A dumb, isolated, prisoner. Too dull to even—

"Alright, c'mere." The command snaps Cas from his thoughts. So coiled up around his shaving dilemma, he nearly misses Dean's wave. Caught off guard, Castiel continue to gawk and Dean hops to his feet. The Huntsman clamps a hand on Cas's shoulder and tugs him down until Cas is copying Dean's prior position. And then Dean is so _close, _Castiel seated between his legs and tries to keep his heart from jumpstarting. There is something startling about Dean's proximity. As he dips the knife in a water basin, and cups Castiel's jaw examining black scruff. It may be because of the lack of facial hair, but Castiel almost feels that he examining a painting up close. Canvas that had been nothing but shapes and blobs of color, now linked together to modify an image.

"Didn't your dad ever teach you this stuff?" Dean asks, dragging the knife against Castiel's cheek smoothly. A fresh patch of ivory blushed skin follows its wake. The Huntsman's face is scrunched in concentration, hot breath fogging at Cas's mouth. It takes Dean to ark a brow at Castiel for him to acknowledge the question. Too many distractions.

"No. My father died a long, long, time ago."

Dean isn't flustered by the answer. Doesn't bat an eye, and continues to scrape. Manhandling Castiel's jaw like a piece of equipment, instead of bone wrapped in flesh. It wasn't unusual to lose a loved one. Children even counted their dead on pudgy fingers. Castiel has lost so many he doesn't think that he could even count them on his hands. Recently, with Dean's reappearance, another finger returned and it felt like air plugged back in his lungs. Like the world wouldn't be ripped out from under him completely. But when Dean's eyes spirited over him, nothing but another tool for his excursions, he couldn't kid himself anymore. Castiel had faded into just another one of Dean's ghosts.

And from the looks of it, Dean was haunted.

"Yeah I get that, same with my mom." He brushes the dagger to the dip of Castiel's throat. "Another single parent victim huh?"

A rush of relief passes over Cas. Glad to not be accounted for explanations of his father's death. Though the alibis rested on his tongue, they were exhausted with use. Rebuilding a past with words became increasingly difficult. Especially when it surfaced true events, still so sharp in his brain.

"No. Both my parents are deceased." Castiel mulls when he sees Dean pause at his answer. Debating on answering those questions that fleet in Dean's mind, Castiel continues to speak. Words start to circle on his tongue before he can address them properly. "I was kept as a…ward by a distant relative. She cared for me until recently."

"Must've been a bitch." There is a grin that snakes its way on Dean's lips. Castiel jolts in his grip—so caught off guard—that the knife pierces his skin. Droplets of blood bulge from his throat. Dean snorts; murmuring curses under his breath, and swipes it with the flesh of his thumb.

"Damn. If you keep moving like that I'm gonna stab you in the throat." It's unsettling how that nearly causes Cas to laugh.

"My apologies." The ex-Huntsman shrugs and continues working. But Dean's last statement itches at Cas, how he sensed so quickly Castiel's dislike for Lilith. Though his story was nothing but a façade, the man still found truth. "Why do you presume my caretaker was a….bitch?" The word sounded even more awkward on his tongue than in his mind.

Dean seemed to think so, as well and gave him nearly a fond look. It reminded Castiel of when Impala would stumble over her paws, or at the creek when Castiel attempted skipping stones.

"Tone of voice man. You sound like you're contemplating murder."

In the back of Castiel's brain, he notes how perceptive Dean is. The man wasn't just brawn and heartbreak. He was observant, keen to others, something that was incredibly dangerous. He had been astute on his tone, careful to measure the amount of grit in his voice. Somehow within moments Dean had picked up on half of his childhood trauma without any effort. If he had in fact been truthful, Castiel wonders what else Dean would procure.

"Oh. Yes, she was very restrictive."

"But she let you get handy with a longbow?"

"Not exactly…she was not aware of all my activities." A snicker loosens every bit of Dean's facial features.

"So pretty and bad I see?"

"Pardon?" Dean says a lot of things that Castiel couldn't decipher. Idioms waterfall from his tongue regularly before Castiel has any time to utter an 'I don't understand that reference.' Usually the slang that others used would cause Castiel to become uncomfortable, many people convinced he was mentally handicapped. But being raised in a cell had limited his understanding of street talk. Castiel felt his ears burn red, so intensely afraid that Dean would be swayed away by his outlandishness.

"Nevermind. What'd she think of the whole prison situation?"

"She aided me being imprisoned." For some reason the startled look that crosses Dean's face eases Cas. He figures for once Dean doesn't have all the power. Every action of his is so unpredictable. Castiel couldn't even lie without being found out. It was invigorating to say at least. To see Dean, lip puckered in puzzlement, deliberating on Castiel's statement.

"Jeez." Finally with one last stroke, Dean discards the last of Castiel's facial hair. Breeze feathered Castiel's neck and cheekbones. With so many years of Lilith's preferred scruff, Castiel found the unmarked skin refreshing. Dean doesn't make any move away. In fact he twirls the knife, flicking off thick strands of hair, and drying it against his coats. "And I thought my family was fucked."

And then there is silence. And then there is not a single movement.

Confused doesn't even cut it for Castiel buried beneath the complexity that is Dean Winchester. Because they still sit, Dean thumbing his knife with Castiel firmly planted between his legs. The two are so close it's almost unbearable. Sure, Dean isn't hitched up to Cas's face anymore. Instead he leans back and eyes Impala (the mutt is lapping at the river they have camped near), as if this wasn't unusual behavior. Only a day ago Dean had affronted Cas. His eyes blazing with grief and furry, stomping any hope for rekindled friendship. Now, their knees are touching. Castiel can see his brown fluffed eyelashes, peppered flesh hair light as wheatgrass. The glowing blush that rimmed Castiel's ears was now a furnace upon his cheeks. On the other hand, Dean didn't feel threatened at all. Cracked an undignified (terribly charming) smile, and handed Castiel a strip of fabric. The ex-Huntsman pointed, before Cas could gaze awkwardly at the strip, at the wound on his throat. It had begun to seep blood once more. Throughout the scenario Castiel didn't even notice the rivet of blood at his maw. He halfheartedly pads at it, never breaking eye contact with the Huntsman.

"Dean?"

"Hmmm?" Dean hums with eyes now darting to Castiel's esophagus.

"May I ask you a question?"

"Hit me."

"Would… this be considered 'dame' stuff?"

And then Dean is stone. A burrowed wrinkled on his brow, greens that had been soft churn violent, relaxed smile squished into a line. With that he pushes Castiel, brute enough that he has to reach to avoid tumbling over. Dean rushes to his feet. Slaps at his thighs and calves to rid himself of grass shavings and dirt. The man who had been cracking jokes, and relaying his feelings through confounding expressions is gone. Dragged kicking and screaming by the soldier, who has no time to lounge or talk. Pangs of regret twitch in Castiel's gut. They expand when Dean takes three steps backwards and regards the bustling river that tongues past their camp grounds. Why must he always ask questions? Always ruin all hopes of interaction with curious observations? It was so difficult to just be _normal._ Blend in like the rest of society. Castiel had been robbed of all that, and now he paid the cost by the grim expression his best friend wore.

"I'm washing Impala in the river."

The sting in Castiel's chest expands, fills his lungs until it crowds his heart.

Afraid he'd push the man so far he'd never be able to count those freckles again.

* * *

Dean wants to blame it on the dream.

Because every time he has shut his eyes, they pounce on him. Years and years, his palette for dreams had been blank. Every time his eyes shut he was greeted with the serenity of emptiness. No flurry of images and emotions, not even direct colors, just a blank void dreamers fall into. Which was nice in all respects, yes there was the occasional night terror, but for the most part Dean could drift through sleep as well as he did in life. Maybe alcohol had seized his ability to dream. The lack of it finally mutating that reassuring darkness into fluid lines, and rogue memory. Nonetheless he dreams.

Fortunately, they do not prey upon his subconscious. And when Dean dreams, setting up camp because he just can't… can't move like he used to, it isn't as unsettling as before. Castiel is still there. Still so stiff and hard-nosed for an eight year old, with eyes brimming stormy cloud gray. His air isn't completely 'Cas' but…its close enough. Something Dean can relax around and breathe easily. Instead of loafing in dried grasses, they are playing in John's stables. And Sammy is galloping right beside them. Not stretchy lanky Sammy with feet too big for his ankles. But three year old Sam again, plump cheeks dimpled by his stunted giggles. Dean can feel the dream bend lucid, as he scoops up his baby brother in his arms. The feeling is so familiar yet so lost that he nearly bursts into tears. Sammy doesn't pay any heed. Just mouths at his shoulder with dripping maw like babies tend to do. Castiel halts his play, and strikes Dean a tender look. As if he knows what will happen in about eleven years. How any memory of Sam's warm embrace will turn to ash.

Maybe he does, who the fuck knows.

This dream does not rip from underneath him like before. It allows him to linger. Let's him bounce his kid brother on his knee, and wrestle his best friend into the shuffled hay. The horse's bay at them and the boys tease their muzzles with apples. There is a hovering fear of John's appearance. Huntsman bounding in to break the boys from their adventures, it feels so real that Dean nearly believes it. That he is in fact just a boy and his only worry is his father's scolding. The dream is so inviting it pervades through Dean's night of torment. Vampire's broken words and broken body only a memory.

When the dream ends, it isn't a fierce tug. The world melts around them, and the treasured dead blurs into color and light. It feels more like a "see you again later" than an ultimate goodbye when the Sammy that grips his knee fades. But then, there is a moment. A moment where Cas hasn't actually washed away, but remains grounded like the dream before. Fire is kindled in the boys gaze. Large steely eyes narrow and Dean knows that something isn't right. For a moment, he is actually terrified.

"You need to listen."

So when Dean wakes-warm and tingly from his dream-to see Jimmy paring the maple slices Dean cut for him earlier, the man's stiff exterior does not bug him. In fact, the more and more he watches escapee work it does the exact opposite. Memories of Cas flood his brain. It's a little surreal, because he hadn't noticed the similarities but now that he does it's actually makes so much sense. Why Dean didn't leave the assailant to rot. Felt so accountable for the man's well-being. The resemblance between them was uncanny, and Dean figured a small childish part of him selfishly wanted to attain anything similar to his long lost best friend. Even if it had a sizeable bounty on its head.

It leads to the light jokes, the gentle poking fun (even shameless flirting); because when Jimmy grinned it was like seeing Cas all over again. Memory of Dean's heated directives earlier do not hinder Jimmy's attitude towards him. Which he is a little relieved about, because…well he can be a huge dick. Jimmy seems actually thrilled, cheeks as hot as coals. It's cruel almost. Because in Dean's mind he just wishes it to be Cas, flinging such light conversation to.

Weird how he hadn't seen Castiel in twelve years, and all of a sudden he ached for him more than he could bear.

When Jimmy is seated between his legs, squirming like a teenaged girl, Dean talking and ridding him of his hair, he feels like he is doing Jim a favor. Which is actually ridiculous, because Jimmy is a grown ass man. Even if he couldn't shave himself he didn't need Dean to coddle him. But Jimmy allows him to. And Dean pries (even though he told himself this is a job) switching into 'concerned friend' mode and Jimmy answers. It actually surprises him, the answers Jimmy supplies. He imagines Jimmy as a young boy holed up by some faceless bitch and then ducking away to become a badass with a longbow. Dean can't actually fathom how such a practice could be veiled, but the image of young Jim (who looks remarkably like young Cas with sea foam eyes) giving the finger to his 'distant relative' in his own dignified _Jimmy _way actually makes Dean…like the guy. Not just because when he looks at the man he sees his dead best friend. But because even when he talks about how his family has locked him away (brother and then bitchy woman counterpart) he is balanced but fierce. Like a controlled thunderstorm about to pour.

There is something compelling about Jimmy. More than straight composure and elegant hand.

But then Jimmy has to ruin everything and make Dean remember. This is a job. No different from flaming wendigos or decapitating vampires. There is no time for familiarities. Jimmy is enough damage as he is, troops swarming in on him for unknown crimes. Dean needs to know the _least_ possible information about his job, for the sake of his own fucking life. The more he knows about Jimmy, the more susceptible he is to the punishments of the kingdom. Push childhood discrepancies, and remarkable look-alikes to the side. Jimmy is a job. And here he is getting nearly….attached? No. Dean is a better Huntsman than that (ex or not). He knows how to do the job thoroughly, how to achieve what he wants. Because Dean has stopped living for other people now. Stopped caring when Sam fell to his knees.

It's only Dean now.

Well and his mutt. With that he forces the 70 pound ball of fur and frustration into the river. Jimmy is quiet throughout the ordeal. Returning to his shapely arrows and picking off the twigs that have twisted in Claire's mane. While Dean grabs Impala by all fours to struggle her into the murk of water, he notices the fall of Jimmy's face. It takes about ten mantras of "Don't be a fucking girl" to quell the guilt and discard his own clothes to bathe.

Impala was beaten pretty badly by those vampires. Thankfully none took a chomp out of her (Dean wasn't entirely sure if animals went vampire) but they had sliced her up good. Bruises adorned her flesh, and cuts creased her hind legs. Easing her into the water wasn't simple. The dog kicked and howled, she already loathed water but to feel it on her wounds was even worse, she nearly wormed out of Dean's grasp. Within that half hour she finally calmed, let Dean wash away her wounds and dismantle matted dirt. When the dog is finally finished she practically leaps out, itching to leave the waters and her handler. Dean follows her lead, feeling refreshed finally after shedding crusted vampire blood from his skin. Jimmy is still working on Claire's wild mane.

"Go in. I'm going to take Impala out to hunt," The dog is pacing around Claire and nipping her joints. "She needs to. And you still stink."

The sentence comes out more of a direct order than a suggestion. But Jimmy doesn't fight it. Immediately he shrugs out of his hood—which has in Dean's mind become a part of him to see Jimmy without it was unsettling—and pulls off the stained gray tunic beneath. Without a word, the man proceeds to the river. Dean has to bite pink in his cheek to not ogle at the man. Because while Jimmy was just a job (not to mention the ghost of Cas) he was no doubt gorgeous. His skin was the palest Dean had ever set eyes upon. Normally he wasn't too keen on white complexion, always favoring women of golden brown like himself, but it glimmers like untouched snow. Dean had guessed it would have ashen from so many years of imprisonment. Bristled sickly and malnourished. But once Jimmy wades into the river oh so gingerly and the sun lightens his skin, it retains a healthy glow. What doesn't escape his notice though are the marks. Slashes of wrinkled scar stretch across his back and stomach. Purple brown bruises pressed into his ribs, ribs that protrude more than they should. It's obvious that Jimmy has seen shit, either prisoner or hostage of faceless bitch, he's felt shit too.

It's also obvious that Dean is staring as Impala jerks his sleeves. He leaves before this can get any worse.

When Dean returns an hour later, pigeon clasped in Baby's jaws and two rabbits under the crook of his armpit, he finds something that he NEVER in a million years expected.

It's a scene nearly plucked from a children's fable. In the rush of tides stands Jimmy, awe painted on his face, water is slicking up his bare skin and splashing that interrupts the tide. And across from Jimmy is…a motherfucking _dragon._ Dean had spotted dragons in the Black Forest before. Most of them snarled from the under bush; protecting their young and ensnaring any passerby with flames. They were few and far between. The Winchester had only slain two in all of Dean's years. It had taken all three, a badly broken ankle from Sammy, and incredible luck with each one. Normally dragons didn't actually pose any threat as long as you didn't invade their territory. But NEVER had Dean spotted a friendly one. Not even an indifferent one. Now he's seeing one, with snout forward, letting Jimmy _pet _it.

The dragon is obviously water prone. Algae have embedded itself among slimy scales in large quantities. Sea creatures dotted every inch of its skin. Barnacles skated up the beast's talons and ankles, starfish festered near eyelids, and even algae suckers flopped in the air as the dragon surfaced. At least fifty feet long, the creature's tail acts nearly as a damn to the foamed water. Most of its height is attributed to the neck, that springs long and thick towards Jimmy. Sprays of water dart every which way by the blockade of the _huge_ dragon, but neither animal or Jimmy seem to notice. Jimmy is tentatively tracing the animal's nose and Dean can see his mouth moving but the water drains out his words. The dragon on the other hand has both eyes closed, and the purr that escapes its lips is so loud that it shakes the earth.

What the actual fuck.

"J-Jimmy…?" Dean stutters because he can't really place what's happening. He's so in shock that he doesn't realize that he is drawing attention to a huge _deadly _animal that is arm's length away from Jimmy. How that may in fact monopolize his position.

Somehow the creature hears Dean's baby wail (even through crashing waves and deep humming), and two blood red eyes snap open. Dean immediately regrets it. Because the beast has turned, jaws interlocked in Jimmy's arm, and plunges back into the river.

Everything immediately goes to hell.

On impulse Dean dives in after Jim. The river is much deeper than he anticipates, and thankfully he does not dive nose-deep into sludge at the bottom. But there is Jimmy, flailing and kicking off at the clutches the dragon has, and Dean kicks forward towards the beast. The dragon seems more confused than anything; it doesn't seem to want to rip Jimmy apart. But more or less keep Dean from him. Blood mists by, and Dean can see Jimmy begin to weaken the longer they descend. With one arm outstretched he attempts to swing his axe towards the beast. But the metal clangs, even underwater, and doesn't affect him in any way. He attempts again, aimed more towards the gullet. This time the animal keens, contorting its body in pain. Algae and suckers tear from its soft bellied throat, but the creature recovers quickly. Slashing out towards Dean and narrowly missing. With a swift kick, Dean bounds forward and strikes the animal's craw once more. A roar emits from the animal, releasing a multitude of bubbles and intersecting the ferocity of the tide. But even though the animal is taut with pain it doesn't release Jimmy. And now Dean is becoming lightheaded, and if his lungs are about to burst he can only imagine the state that Jimmy's are in.

But then Jimmy's eyes crack half open. He has been yanked like a rag doll, but somehow manages to lift a hand to the crested cheek of the dragon. The archer gives the dragon that _look_. The one Dean is so familiar with. That prods and nestles into your brain. Then a miracle happens.

The dragon surfaces, not only releasing Jimmy gently to the riverbank but tosses Dean (not so gently) up as well.

Vapor skims the water surface as the dragon lingers. Watching Jimmy with wide earnest eyes, Jimmy in return raises a hand. Dean doesn't know if it's goodbye or what but the dragon then sinks leaving Dean with ample time to upchuck all the river muck he swallowed. Jimmy passes the fuck out.

* * *

When Jimmy wakes up, he is beyond pissed.

In the adventure of holy-fuck-that-is-a-real-motherfucking-dragon, Jimmy is conscious for only half. After the creature departs, Dean rustles over to Jimmy to check his vitals. Surprisingly they are strong for someone who was burrowed under water for a whole five minutes with a chewed up forearm. Dean then drags Jimmy from the banks (with Impala yapping at him the whole time because his dog is pissed too shit), and settles him near Claire who is spooked enough to butt her head towards Jim's unconscious body. Blood practically pours from Jimmy's wounds, and Dean rips into his packs for his extra coat to tear off slices. Wrapping the man's incisor marks with fabric to lessen the bleeding. Dean then pops his dislocated shoulder back into place, thanking god the man sleeps as he hears the snap of bone.

Night ascends quickly and Dean realizes that the drop of temperature is probably deathly towards Jim. So in the end he does what he always vowed not to do whilst in the Black Forest. He huddles sticks and other materials and sparks a fire. It's low enough so that the flame won't pick up too much unwanted attention, and the smoke disperses easily into the breeze. But it still glows in the aftermath, and Dean grabs Jimmy's unconscious body towards it. Hoping that blocking the flame with Claire on one side and both men on the other; the creatures of the Black Forest wouldn't sense it.

The night becomes a 'see how much body heat we can conserve', as Dean huddles Jimmy between his legs (stripped of most his wet clothes…he had to leave _something_) with Dean's furs bundled around him and Impala draped over both their legs. It's so unbearably hot Dean nearly calls it quits several times. But the clammy exterior of Jimmy's skin keeps calling him back. Throughout the process Dean is expecting his thank you. A thank you with a fucking swoon afterwards, maybe a declaration of servitude.

"Dean."

Dean had been drifting off to sleep, even though he vowed to stay up for watch, but jumps at the grit of Jim's voice.

"Hello sleeping beauty."

And then Dean is waiting for his thank you now. But instead he gets a slap right to the cheek once Jim spirals around at him. The red hot handprint burns and Dean can just goggle as his fingers brush against it.

"What the—What the fuck was that for!?"

"You are foolish." Jimmy's stone cold glare is unwavering, even when Dean flops around angrily. "Not only did you endanger me. But you wounded the dragon. She could have died."

"I was saving your life!"

"I did not need to be saved Dean."

"You were shaking hands with a _dragon!"_

"I was _fine_ before you showed up."

And yea, maybe this was true. But what the holy hell? He rescues this guy from a meat eating monster and all he gets is a slap to the face? I mean seriously way to hurt a guy's ego. Dean was boggled at the fact that Jimmy nearly died at the talons of a dragon, almost catching Dean in the rift, and is concerned about the monsters safety? Is there no end to this madness?

"Dean," Jimmy sighs, a fuming look splayed on his face. He is now turned towards Dean as much as he can with Impala on his knees, with fingers clenched tight into fists. His knuckles burst white at the seams. "You are the most _infuriating_ man I have ever known. When I follow your instructions you are not satisfied. Time and time again you prove kindness and then scold me for returning it. I do not know if I should regard you as ally or friend, because you do not allow me to choose either one. The mood swings you present not only confuse me, but can endanger my life. And you seem under the assumption that I am unable to care for myself. I am no damsel in distress but I am also not a soldier of war. No, I cannot defend myself against hordes of monsters, but I am not incapable of defending myself. I do not know what has happened to you Dean Winchester. But whatever it may be _it is not my fault._ So if you would please treat me as more than a lap dog and more as an partner, than maybe we can actually live."

Dean is so stunned by Jimmy's speech he can't speak. Just lets his jaw hang at the words and breathe like a damn heathen.

"…Thank you though for not letting me die."

Dean swallows and watches as Jimmy's expression—that had been close to murderous—soften beneath Dean's surprise. It was like watching a bloodthirsty wolf shape shift into a harmless kitten. The amount of sides Jimmy was allowing Dean to see was beginning to multiply with each hour.

"Uhm yea…sure. Sorry I'm such a dick."

"You are not a 'dick' Dean." Wow does that word sound weird when Jimmy says it. Jimmy seems to think so to when his nose scrunches up. "Misguided maybe, I do still believe you are a good person."

"Oh. Well thanks I guess."

The silence stretches and Jimmy settles back into his original position. Back held up against Dean, breathing finally returning to normal. His whole skin had burned livid throughout the speech, but it seems after the words left a great stress was lifted from him. The strained tense position he had held before gone slack.

"So…what were you doing with the dragon?"

"She came up to me and allowed me to interact with her." The tone of Jimmy's voice then degrades to a soft whisper. "She was very beautiful."

"I guess if you're into seaweed."

Jimmy chuckles and hovers a finger over Dean's palm. It takes nearly his whole body not to just twitch with anxiety.

"I've never seen a dragon do anything over than try to fry someone." Dean murmurs, trying to fill the atmosphere with anything more than this….this weird situation.

"…Some would say I have a way with animals." Jimmy curls that hesitant finger back into a fist. "Ever since I was a child…"

As Jimmy finished his sentence his words trail, and Dean quirks around to see the archer drifting off again. His body so worn from the fight, probably mentally exhausted by his speech, Jimmy sleeps once more.

This time Dean stays up and keeps watch. Well he tries to watch anything but the body in his arms.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Told you it'd be fluffier. Not so much angst. Hope you guys like this chapter it was fun to write. This story is starting to have more bulk and it's freaking me out! BUT HEY GUESS WHAT NEXT CHAPTER IS PROBABLY GOING TO FEATURE WHATEVER SPN DWARVES I COME UP WITH. You may or may not guess. I feel like it's kinda obvious who I'm choosing. I don't know if it'll be exactly seven….well whatever eh?


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